


Play That Song at My Funeral (It's Got a Beat You Can Dance To)

by Rednaelo



Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: (read: making contracts with demons), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Decisions, Basically, Demon AU, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fuck Or Die, Lust, M/M, Manipulation, Not Beta Read, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Romance, Protectiveness, Sex and Intimacy in Full Contrast and Extreme Concert, Supernatural Codependency, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension, also snuggle or die, dubcon elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9765416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Rednaelo
Summary: Rhys becomes the virgin sacrifice to an odd pair of demons and winds up not being a sacrifice anymore.  Or a virgin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caedrea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caedrea/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reinventing the wheel here. Redundant, sure. Unoriginal, absolutely. I loved this work into being and I'm gonna smother you with it. Please happily accept your suffocation.
> 
> -Bec

Timothy

They drop another unfortunate and Jack perks up like a puppy and _bolts_.   Timothy isn’t even gonna try to fight him for it.  He sighs and twirls the chewed-up ballpoint pen in his fingers before putting it back to the paper.

_Is it awful that the sounds of people screaming don’t even bother me anymore?_

 And then Tim frowns at the sentence he just wrote.

_Okay, that’s wrong, it does bother me.  But I’ve stopped making an effort to stop Jack.  Or stop myself. Or feel guilty about the inevitab_

The pen’s out of ink. Tim sighs, more dramatically this time, hands flying up to smack against his face and he goes tumbling backwards off of the bed because why not.

It’s gonna take him ages to find another pen.  The assholes upstairs might give him one if he asks nicely but Timothy rolls up to his knees and dusts himself off while thinking he’d rather eat his own shoe than ask them for anything.  Scavenging it is.

Jack’s prey is shrieking in absolute terror.  High-pitched but probably male this time, Tim thinks as he plunks and plods his way over to a nearby trash heap.  Where did he find that last pen?  Oh right, he found it pelted at his face one night when Jack was feeling testy.  It was saved for its usefulness.  Tim considered for a grand total of ten seconds that maybe Jack had done it on purpose; Tim had been trying to record his account of living in the Hellhole as soon as it became clear that he was going to be a permanent resident.  Pens and pencils became precious.

More likely, Jack probably has a stash of pens he’s hoarding and hiding from Tim, just so he can throw them when Tim starts bothering him too much. 

“Never thought I’d be placated by writing utensils,” Tim mutters as he picks through the junkyard that is his home.  They have it set to the ‘night cycle’ so the stupid fluorescent lights are off but the neon signs that are plugged in cast the mounds of garbage in caustic colors of red and blue. 

Jack’s dinner is probably lost in the dark.  Scared.  Tripping over stuff, crashing into washing machines from the 80’s and stacks of old milk crates.  Every now and then, Tim can hear Jack cackling, the glee of his voice rattling around the rusting rafters high above them.  Tim clicks his tongue.  Jack is play-hunting again. 

“Poor bastard….”

Lint pills under his fingernails as Tim picks at the lining of his jacket pockets.  The far corner of the Hellhole is sparse and probably won’t yield much but at least he won’t have to overturn heavy machinery to dig around.  In this sort of light, that would just be too much of a pain in the ass. Tim nudges an old printer onto its side and tilts his head to peer into a box of chipped kitsch mugs. Asking would be easier.  Tim doesn’t consider himself to be a prideful sort – who could call themselves prideful next to Jack?  Prideful, no.  Bitter, intensely.

It’s when he’s plucking through a carpet bag mostly inhabited by crawly little bugs when the quiet has gone on long enough to be noticed.  Tim halts and turns his head, listening.  But there’s no more screaming.  No more of Jack’s laughter.  The result should be obvious but….  Usually the game ends with torture.  It crescendos for an hour before the silence.

Tim gets to his feet and leaves behind his search.

 

Jack is circling and prowling around an armored van that was left to rot against the southern wall.  On only one axel with flat tires and doors that have been melted shut (who knows why, maybe a mechanic was bored one day), the thing ain’t got a bit of use left in it.  Though, apparently, the most recent sacrifice has found a way inside.  Timothy would slow clap if he weren’t too busy smiling. The smile lists a bit when Jack angrily punches through the windshield, producing a horrified cry from within.  A few fruitless swipes inside and the litany of cursing indicates that there’s something impeding Jack’s success.  Timothy dares to let his shoulders slump.

“Can’t believe the day has finally come when Handsome Jack was outmaneuvered by a mere mortal,” Tim says quietly, as if he really – truly – can’t believe it. Jack’s head snaps up and his teeth are out in a snarl.  He rolls his eyes.  He rears back.  He dives into the broken windshield and the car rocks on its two popped tires.  The screaming’s back.  There’s crashes and growling and Tim is sprinting to the car before he realizes what he’s doing.  He grabs Jack by the ankles and calves and hauls him out.

The fight that ensues is full of broken glass and wood splinters (there were shipping pallets inside the van) and teeth and claws and finally Tim is a safe distance away from Jack but still between Jack and the van.

“You gonna try to save this one too, Timmy?” Jack asks, his derisive laughter a sweet mask for how fucking furious he is.  Tim won’t be sleeping with his back to the open air tonight.  “I’ll eat ‘em.  I’ll eat ‘em all; you’re supposed to have learned this lesson by now, pumpkin.”

Tim doesn’t have anything to bite back with.  Arguing the contrary would be such a flaccid rebuttal.  He stands with his knees bent and his fingers flexed to swipe again.  There are bruises on his ribs and his cheek got elbowed pretty bad; he’ll heal within minutes but in a drawn-out fight, his stamina won’t hold up against Jack’s strength.  If Jack comes at him now, Tim will certainly fail to protect the human inside (god, please still be alive, please don’t be dead).

Jack scoffs and runs his fingers through his hair wiping blood off the bridge of his nose.

“You know, I’m gonna let you entertain your delusion of morality for the zillionth fucking time and when it comes to its grand conclusion, I’m gonna sit in your lap and force-feed you all the screaming pieces.  _Capisce_?”

Jack runs his tongue across his lips and teeth.  Tim sneers at him; his nose twitches and everything.  Jack leaves. 

“Find me a fucking pen,” Tim yells after him.

“Suck my dick.”

Tim waits until Jack is out of sight, out of hearing range, far enough that there’s only a soft whiff of his blood and pheromones to even indicate that he’s still in the space.  He waits until there’s the telltale crash of him knocking over a pile of junk in frustration and then the squeaking crash of Jack landing on his bed, napping off his anger.  It’ll come right back to him when he wakes, with a gnash of self-righteous bloodlust on its heels.

Tim has to act fast.  He’s already acting recklessly.  What’s a little more haste?  He runs to the hatch – it’s not far, the van is still within watching-distance – and slams his fist on the buzzer.  A spotlight opens down on him and Tim gazes up into the silhouette that eclipses the halo of fluorescent off-white.

“Hey, throw some water bottles down,” he yells up.  “He made a mess again and the pipes are still busted.  And fix the pipes while you’re at it, assholes!”

The hatch closes.  Tim waits.  He puts his hands in his pockets and digs his nails into his palms. He doesn’t look over his shoulder once but all of his focus is diverted behind him.  He listens for Jack.  He listens for screaming.  Tim’s hands are not shaking but he’s pulling all the skin off his bottom lip with his teeth and thinking about Jack sitting in his lap and pushing tender, wet morsels between his lips.   And he’ll hate it and he’ll eat it and it’ll just be another thing to write about in his notebook.  It’ll go like this:

_“Dear Diary, today I had a misplaced sense of guilt again and had it served to me with a side of bile and I-told-you-so….”_

They open the hatch again throw down a whole pack of water bottles.  Tim catches it, bending his knees to dip with gravity and then _runs_.

The van is still and silent and Tim puts aside the case of water bottles so he can press his hands to it and listen.  Whoever is inside is still breathing.  Bleeding – a sweet, musty perfume that makes Tim’s mouth water – and whimpering.  Adrenaline sweating out through their shirt and soaking the air with spice.  Tim counts back, trying to remember the last time he ate and he can’t remember.

“Hey,” he says, still counting, five days? Six, no, seven…nine…. “Hey, it’s gonna be alright, hang on a second.”  Tim rips into the case and pulls out a bottle.  He’s on his way to lower it through the busted windshield but stops when his boot kicks something that clinks.  There’s a belt on the ground.  And it’s shiny.  Definitely not just another bit of garbage.  Tim lowers himself to his knees and peers under the van.  There’s no human but there is a hole in the bottom of the van.  The entry point, then.  Tim breathes a little sigh and rolls the bottle underneath the van.  There’s a startled shuffle from inside.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s just a water bottle,” Tim says, laying down on the cold, dirty ground a few feet away, watching.  “Look, I’m just gonna talk a little, okay?” Tim continues when nothing happens.  “Short story is that you were kidnapped by the Eridian Cult to be fed to demons and you’re very unlucky but the luckiest since you’re still alive.  Do you want to keep being alive?”

Tim closes his eyes and waits.  The shaky sigh that comes spilling out of that rusted-through hole feels like the first familiar note of a beautiful song.

“Uhhmmm…yeah, I’d like that,” the person in the van says.  Their voice cracks.  Tim’s pulse rattles and leaps from the cage of his play-pretend-jaded heart. 

“Me too,” he confesses.  It hurts to be hopeful.  “Dunno how much you heard but Jack – the guy chasing you? – he’s gone.  Just for now.  He’s gonna come back and this van and I will not be able to save you next time." 

“I’m fucked,” the one inside moans.  Tim wishes he could deny it.

“I give us a good few hours,” Tim says.

“You were captured too? How long have you been here?  What’s your name?”

The moral dilemma of not revealing the whole truth tastes sharply sweet on the back of Tim’s tongue.  He swallows it back. 

“I’ve been here for a couple years,” Tim says.  “My name’s Timothy.  I’m Jack’s….  I’m Jack’s.”

It’s a really paltry explanation but it’s probably the least likely to make the guy panic on him.  He won’t trust Tim if he’s panicking. Tim shifts and folds his arms underneath his head because he’s made a spot for himself to camp now.  The water bottle is still where Tim rolled it.

“Jack’s what?” the victim asks, understandably wary.

Tim sighs.

“Uh.  Lots of things,” he says.   “Doppelganger, if you want the short of it.  Partner, maybe? If you turn your head sideways and squint.  Jack’s…only friend?  Reluctantly?”

“So you’re on his side.”

Tim feels his heart thumping like he’s trying to dig a hole into the ground with his pulse. 

“Only as much as you can be on someone’s side when they’re all you’ve got,” Tim grumbles.  “We’re all trapped here.  You, me, Jack too.  We’re stuck in this bunker.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t hear him trying to eat _you_.”

“He’s tried,” Timothy says with all the exasperation of a pet owner who can’t get their unneutered dog to stop humping the guests.  “He stopped trying eventually.”

“Didja kick him in the balls?”

Tim startles himself with how hard he’s laughing, burying his face into his arms to muffle it from drawing too much attention.  Actually, Jack traded the attempts at cannibalizing Tim for just fucking him and calling it a day.  That’s neither here nor there.

“Something like that,” is what Tim says.  “What’s your name?”  Because he’d like to know.  The last one he got to talk to was Charlie.  The one after him, Tim never even got to know her name before Jack got her.  Before Charlie was Jess.

“It’s Rhys,” the person says.  There’s a quiet creak and Tim holds himself completely still as a pale hand cuffed by a bloodied sleeve plucks the water bottle from the ground.  Rhys.  Tim wonders what he looks like.

“Hi, Rhys,” he says.  He smiles when he says it and it really hurts with his heart still thumping against the ground and the fear at the back of his throat.  Jack is far but he’s too damn close. Tim feels like he’s making good time but he also feels the soft, rumbling laughter that bubbles up from behind Jack’s fangs whenever he’s got things exactly the way he wants them.  He _feels_ it.

“Thanks for the water,” Rhys says.

The hatch opens again.  Tim pushes himself up to a crouching position and turns his back to the van, eyeing the faraway circle of light that streams down into the Hellhole’s grimy dark.

“Jack!” they yell down the hatch and Jack cusses back at them.  It’s a few paces to prowl for Tim to situate himself so that he’s between Jack and the van if Jack decides to come this way.  It’s close enough to the hatch that he might…. 

“Timothy?”

Rhys’ voice is small and Tim bares his teeth when the whisper reaches him.  He bets Rhys probably thinks he can’t even hear him.  There’s a crackle of plastic like a half-empty water bottle being clutched tight against a chest behind sweating palms and Tim thinks that, yeah, if Jack’s being called out for tasking then it’s now or never.  He watches Jack leap up into the light and climb out of the hatch and when it slams shut behind him, Tim goes right back to the truck.

“’S alright, Rhys, that was just the cult summoning Jack for some work.  He’s gone.”

“Oh.  Okay, so…now what?”

“You wanna get out of there?” Tim asks.  He’s gotta do this now, while Jack is away.  It’s perfect; if the opportunity passes, coaxing Rhys outside of the truck might lead to his death before Tim even has a chance to do anything.

“Well, I’d like to not die and so far staying in here is doing a good job of that,” Rhys gives a tired laugh.  “But you said that wouldn’t last for long.  He did bust through the windshield….”

“I can protect you,” Tim says.  “I’m a demon; I know a way that will keep you safe from Jack.  Permanently.”

The plastic crackles again.

“Well I-I’m listening,” Rhys says.  Tim’s stomach hurts.  There’s sweat on the back of his neck.

“You can enter into contract with me,” he says, one hand pressing against metal window of the truck.  “Contracts with humans grant us immeasurable power and with that, I can protect you for the rest of your life.  From anything, even Jack.”

He’s never even seen Rhys’ face but Tim can hear Rhys breathing slowly and each breath sounds like it’s burdened with doubt.  Tim despairs, touching his forehead to the car door and trying to focus on the buzz of the neon far off from them both.  Constant.  A thing that will never change.  Like living alone with just Jack for a friendly face.  Not that Tim doesn’t love the guy.  But love is exactly the worst word for it. 

“I mean,” Rhys finally says, “I might just watch too much TV but wouldn’t selling my soul to a demon mean I’d have to like…sacrifice something?  Like my soul?  Or…my blood, demons don’t drink blood, that’s vampires….”

Tim gives a short, soundless laugh.  Disbelieving and maybe riding on the hope that Rhys might actually be considering it.  He’s asking questions, not outright refusing.

“No, I don’t want your soul,” Tim tells him.  “I’d ask you for something more manageable.”

“So….  Like what, what would you ask me for?”

Trouble is that Tim has never gotten this far.  The strategy – before he gave up on it, _thought_ he gave up on it – was just how to bring up the offer without being wildly denied.  Delicacies like that could never be worked out; Tim had wrestled and struggled with them until giving up was easier and letting Jack kill whoever fell was easier and ignoring everything….  It was just easier. Tim thinks that thinking needs to stop happening.  So he stops thinking and just talks.

“I’d like a friend,” Timothy says lightly.  He swallows around the lump in his throat.  Sudden, subconscious honesty slipping out now that he’s decided that turning off the filter was the smart thing to do.  Too late now; gotta run with it.  “A friend that isn’t Jack.  So I guess I’d contract you for time spent together.  Maybe like…a hug sometimes?”

“You’re serious.” 

Timothy laughs like helium balloons floating away.

“Too good to be true?”

“Well, it sounds like it,” Rhys mutters.

“Remember, you’d be stuck with me forever,” Timothy says with another delirious chuckle.  “So, you know, you’re not getting off scot free.”

“BFF’s for real.”  Rhys sounds like he’s actually smiling.  The quiet that follows is a welcome reprieve and Tim uses it to take slow, deep breaths and tell himself to quit throwing himself foolishly into a future that hasn’t even happened yet.  He just needs to get Rhys to agree and seal the contract and then he can daydream all he fucking likes.  Until then, they’re both still in danger. 

Rhys speaks up.

“So,” he says, “I would contract you to protect me, in exchange for being friends.”

“Yeah, just like that,” Timothy says, keeping his tone gentle, absolving himself of sounding too eager.  That could send out all the wrong signals.  Like…being eager to have Rhys subservient to him.  Or make him think that it’s all a lie to lure Rhys out so he’ll eat him instead.  These are accusations that Tim has sampled before, both tasting bitter and cloying as ash.

“Well, let’s do it, let’s make the contract.”

Tim is past doing things like crying from elation but, _fuck_ ….

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rhys says.  “You’re my best option.  I think a good way to start a friendship would be by saving my life.”

Instinctually, Tim wants to gather this moment in time in his arms and cradle it but the rest of him is actually using the brain it was born with.

“Can you get yourself out?” he asks.  “We gotta do this face to face in order to get the contract to take.”  And they have to get it done now before second thoughts happen and more arguing can waste time for Jack to show up again and ruin Tim’s success.

“Just kill me quickly if it turns out you’ve been feeding me bullshit all this time,” Rhys says.

Tim backs up.  He gives Rhys plenty of room so he doesn’t feel like he’s being crowded when he climbs out.  At the same time, someone upstairs decides that ‘nighttime’ is over and flicks on the lights.  With a faint buzzing, the long rows of domed, fluorescent bulbs flicker on to weak illumination.  Once they warm up, they’ll light the room properly.  Rhys hisses an, “ouch,” as he shimmies and scoots his way from under the van.  Tim stands a couple yards away with his fists in his jacket pockets.

“You got it?  Want some help up?” he offers, because how could he not?

“I’m okay.  Just…tired.  Still hurts.”

Rhys straightens up and Tim stares at him.  He still has the water bottle tucked in the crook of his arm, the one that hasn’t been ripped through by what is probably Jack’s teeth, judging by the blood pattern soaking the fabric.  Rhys wears slacks and vest and they’re dirty-sweaty-bloody and so is his face but he’s giving Tim a little smile and seems genuine about it.

“Hi,” Timothy says, smiling back (he keeps his lips over his teeth; Rhys has already been bitten, he doesn’t need a reminder).

“Hi.”  Rhys swallows.  His eyes roam Tim’s shape in the poor lighting and Tim takes a half step back.

“We look exactly the same,” he says, nodding, because he knows, “but I’m not like Jack.” 

He is.  He’s very like Jack.  Too much like him. Hungry like him.  Only difference is that Tim was human once so he remembers what fear feels like and that tends to ruin his appetite.

Rhys just nods, his smile failing a little bit.  Tim presses on.

“We should get this done quickly.”  It’s not like Tim to _fidget_ but he’s ducking his head and kicking at scraps on the ground, hands flailing where they’re contained in his jacket.   “I mean, Jack will probably be back before long so it’d be good to get you safe first.  But also because I have a change of clothes you can wear.  And food.  And a bed you can sleep in.”

“Are you an angel?” Rhys asks after a moment and Tim lifts his head to see Rhys gazing at him with this dreamy sort-of look on his features, his eyes a little watery.  It’s getting harder for Tim to smile without showing his teeth.

“The opposite,” he says. “Alright, just focus on me while I state the terms.”

Rhys straightens up – militant, almost – and keeps his attention on Timothy, who takes a breath and then stares straight into Rhys’ eyes. 

“I do swear in all my power to protect the life and wellbeing of Rhys, my contractor, who stands before me.  I do swear, to the best of my ability, keep him from harm, from any and all sources.  I do swear to never knowingly lead him towards danger without his deliberate, informed consent.  And I do swear to heal him of any illnesses or injuries that are within my power to heal.” 

Timothy snuffs a bit of a laugh when Rhys has to snap his mouth closed.  Those terms probably included a few stipulations that he wasn’t expecting.  It’s amazing what contract magic can do.  Defy physics.  Reverse time.  Cheat death.  Timothy has done his research.

He goes on.

“In exchange for my powers,” Tim says while Rhys worries his teeth over his bottom lip, “Rhys will be my companion for the rest of his life.  He will, to the best of his ability, spare at least an hour in total of his time for me every day, at his behest, in company or conversation.  He will, at his willingness, share in any desired expressions of platonic physical affection with me.”

Oh, god, Rhys is blushing now.  Features and body frozen but his pale face (he’s got a smudge of something on his cheek and on his chin) is going red from the tip of his nose all the way up to his forehead and Tim’s blushing back because _why not?_  his body apparently thinks.  Blushing but not tense, is Rhys.  And that….  Tim can breathe.  It’s easy to breathe right now, surprisingly.

“Are there any conditions you do not agree with, Rhys?” Timothy asks him.

“None,” Rhys says, shaking his head.

“Are there any conditions you wish to add before the contract is sealed forever?” Timothy asks.  “You must do so now.  The terms can never be changed.”

He watches Rhys swallow and glance down to stare at Tim’s shoes like they’ll give him an out.  But then his brow furrows and his mouth sets in a determined sort of frown and he lifts his head again to look Tim in the eyes.

“This is fine,” Rhys says.  His voice only cracks a bit.

“Then we seal it,” Timothy says.

“Okay….”  Rhys waits.  Timothy waits.  Rhys clears his throat.  “So, what, do you need me to give you my blood or…like we do that thing where we spit on our palms and shake hands?”

Tim screws up his smile and bites on his bottom lip.

“Rules are that one of us has to state the terms, and the other one has to seal it.  So, whatever you want?  If you wanna spit and shake, that would work but, uh, it’s what you like.”

Rhys mulls it over for half a second then takes the few steps to close the gap between them and holds his hand out, saliva-free.

“I think a normal handshake should work just fine. 

Tim grins and nods, forgetting himself for a moment – Rhys flinches when he sees his fangs but then he relaxes just as quickly – and the normal handshake works just fine. 

Nothing feels different.  No big hurrah or lightshow but Tim sees the dark spirals and jags of a contract seal beginning to circle his wrist and he withdraws his hand before Rhys has noticed.  It’s done.

“Please tell me there’s a toilet somewhere in this landfill,” Rhys says.  Tim grins and nods and beckons him along and they leave the van behind.

 

Home is an extracted two-car garage that has a Jack-half and a Timothy-half separated by nothing but their own inconstant boundaries.  Tim’s half is a bare mattress on a boxspring, a metal folding chair crowded with books and loose-leaf like a poor imitation of Jenga, and a minifridge stuffed full of vices offered by the Assholes Above.  He gives Rhys the bed and sits on the floor next to him, cross-legged. 

“I’ll take care of that for you, if you want,” Tim says, gesturing to Rhys’ arm.  Rhys has the sleeve rolled up now, the raw wound from Jack’s bite exposed to the open air now.  At the fringes of the open flesh, Rhys’ skin has gone red with what is probably early onset of bacterial infection.

“Oh, yeah, please, it, uh, it actually really hurts,” Rhys says.  “You keep a first aid kit here?” 

“I’m gonna try to do this the abnormal way,” Tim tells him with a soft smile, which makes the gratitude in Rhys’ eyes lose all its light.  Until Tim clarifies.  “Part of my contract involves healing you, yeah?”

“Yyyyeahhhh…?” Rhys says, wary.

“So I can do that by my own power, no first aid kit necessary.”

“What, like, demon magic?” Rhys asks, scooting a little closer to the edge of the mattress as he holds out his arm.

“Yeah.  It won’t hurt you at all though it might feel a little bizarre.”  Tim carefully takes Rhys’ arm and covers the wound, doming his palm over it without adding any pressure.  “No clue how long it will take, though.” 

“Oh, oh! Wow, I can feel…it’s like….  It’s just warm,” Rhys observes aloud, tilting his head this way and that as if some particular angle is going to grant him the ability to suddenly see through Tim’s hand.  “Like fresh clothes out of the dryer.”

“Feels good?” Tim asks him.  He looks away from the bright blue glow of the contract circle on his wrist to give Rhys a smile.

“Mmhmm, ‘s nice.” 

Rhys is pretty.  There was plenty of time to look at him while making the contract and Timothy has determined that, yep, those long skinny legs and pretty amber eyes are Attractive. His smile is nice too, when Tim manages to see it.  Given the circumstances, he didn’t expect to see it at all but there it is, right now, small and relieved as Timothy uses his newly granted powers to restore his contractor.

“Hey, Timothy?” Rhys asks.

“Yeah?”

“Am I—er, I guess,” Rhys blushes again (god, it’s contagious, this is gonna be a recurring problem), “are _we_ gonna be stuck here forever?  Where even are we?”

Tim shifts his hold just a bit, makes it so he’s not so much gripping Rhys as he is supporting him.

“Well, we’re underground,” Tim starts off by saying because it’s easy to go bit by bit.  “I think this might’ve been a nuke bunker at some point but it got repurposed into this.”  He jerks his head to the side to indicate the mountainous stretches of garbage as far as the eye can see.  The scent of blood is beginning to vanish.  “I’m pretty sure we’re still within the state lines but I actually don’t have much of a clue.  As to whether we’re going to be stuck here forever, the answer is probably not now that you’re here.”

Tim gives Rhys a grin.

“Our contract is a great advantage and there’s definitely a way we can use to help jailbreak us but I haven’t thought too hard on it yet.”

“I’d totally pitch in ideas but I literally have no idea what you’re capable of so I’ve got nothing,” Rhys says.  His smile is that knowingly-clueless-still-cheeky sort and Tim can feel his eyes sparkling as he looks up at Rhys.  Beneath his fingers, Rhys’ skin is very soft.

“I mean,” Tim starts, “we can just start with the parameters of the contract.  Do you remember any of it?”

“I probably should’ve bothered to pay better attention,” Rhys admits.  His bottom lip gets pulled back into his mouth with shiny white teeth.  “Can you write it down for me?”

“Of course I will,” Tim says.  “The other thing that you should really be aware of is that if we leave, Jack has to come with us.”  That’s the moment when the magic literally runs out.  Tim releases Rhys and save for a ripped sleeve and few splotches of blood, there’s nothing left but smooth, healed skin. 

“Oh, great,” Rhys says, sarcasm not quite covering up the dread.  He looks at the place where the bite wound was and his smile is brittle.  “Lemme guess, more demon shenanigans?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, nodding and readjusting his position on the ground.  “I’m tied to him, you see.  Physically, we can be as far apart as we like but I can’t really be anywhere without him knowing.  And I’d much rather know where he is than not.  I’m sure you get it.”

Rhys scoffs.  Yeah, he gets it. 

“He won’t hurt you anymore.  Ever,” Tim reminds him softly.  Rhys rubs his thumb over his arm and takes a deep breath.

“Paranoia’s still gonna be there,” Rhys says.  “I’m gonna sound like the most masochistic idiot ever but I’d like to…try talking to him?  Maybe?  Maybe if I can turn him from a monster into a man it won’t be as terrifying.”

Tim nods.  That kind of transformation is never going to happen, not even figuratively.  Tim would caution Rhys against it but he doesn’t need to.  He can protect him no matter what; Rhys can take the risks he wants.

“Just make sure I’m there whenever he’s around,” he says, if it wasn’t already clear.

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, Mr. Knight in Leather Jacket.”  Rhys grins; Tim chuckles.  

He leans forward and puts his forehead against Rhys’ knee, arms wrapped around his own shin.

“This okay?” Tim asks quietly.  His answer is a gentle hand in his hair, petting him. 

There’s a faraway memory of someone (his mom, maybe?) petting his hair.  And another, closer memory of his sweet little cat, curled up and purring in Tim’s lap while he stroked her.  Feelings of warmth…of belonging….

Timothy had spent his whole college career studying the intricacies of demons and their ways.  He certainly didn’t get his degree in it (there was no such thing as a B.A. in Demonology) but the materials he read so academically dissected the purpose and outcomes of what a contract was and what it could do.  The texts might’ve been scrounged up from New Age bookstores and accounts written back before it was widely acknowledged that the earth revolved around the sun but it was enough for Tim to understand.  

No academic text, TV show, fantasy movie or dimestore harlequin romance could even clue him in to this: how Tim’s whole world is just the place where Rhys is threading his dusty fingers through Tim’s hair. The silent question muffled beneath the slow tide of endorphins in Tim’s veins is, ‘How much of this is Contract and how much of this is Crush?’

Doesn’t matter; Tim’s entire rest of his life is holding him tenderly, even though it’s just a knee to lean against and a hand at the back of his head. 

“Um,” Rhys breaks the quiet, “Heheh, it’s weird, I feel like…I dunno, like, my stomach feels really warm?”

Tim smiles and scooches forward a little more so he can be closer and tilt his head to look at Rhys without breaking any contact.  Rhys’ blush might get to be an old sight one day, Tim thinks.  Probably will.  But not right now.

“I’m feeling that way too.”

The hatch slams shut.  The happy-reptile part of Tim’s brain flinches back like Rhys’ hand and reality sets up its four walls once again.  Right.  Jack.  Rhys is taking a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever inevitability befalls them.  Nothing good, that’s for sure. 

“I’m gonna go out to meet him first,” Tim says.  “It’ll be better if you’re not there when the news breaks.”

“I trust you on that,” Rhys says.  He backs up and makes himself small on the mattress.  Tim gives him as reassuring a smile as he can.

“I’ll try to bring him back in one piece.”  No promises, though.

 

Timothy decides that you can’t cheat if there isn’t a commitment to speak of beforehand to cheat on.  So when Jack sees the contract circle around Tim’s wrist and gets that look on his face that he only gets when he’s about to make insides come outside, Tim feels zero guilt and absolute vindication.

“Well look at the mess you’ve made now, Timmy,” Jack says, like a chainsaw revving the first time before the engine actually catches.

“You can’t hurt Rhys,” Tim informs Jack, coming ever closer because he won’t stop now.  “That’s the contract, so don’t try.”

Jack’s unimpressed stare would topple kings off their thrones.  And then he rolls his eyes and splits the dimensions and has Tim pressed against the nearest solid vertical surface (seems to be a rusted filing cabinet, if Tim hazards a guess) with his arm twisted up and pinned behind his back.

“Jeez,” Tim sighs.

“Remember what I told you long time ago when they dropped you in my lap, Tim Tams?” Jack murmurs into Tim’s ear, pressing himself bodily against him from shoulder to thigh. He pulls Timothy’s arm up even tighter, straining the tendons and making Tim hiss in pain.

“You said a bunch of shit that day; what are we talking about?” Tim asks, grunting between his gasps.

“I don’t babysit mortals, I eat them,” Jack snaps, breath hot against Tim’s neck.

“Didn’t eat me,” Tim points out, just to be obtuse.

“Yeah, well, you’re my special boy, Timmy,” Jack says and slips his other hand underneath Tim’s shirt.  The cloth is lifted, skimming over Tim’s body to expose him to the humid air of the bunker and Jack presses his palm against the Twin Shadow circle that’s burned over Timothy’s heart.  Like Tim needs the reminder that it’s there.  “So why the hell do you think you can fuck me over like this, huh?” Jack snarls.  His claws dig into Tim’s skin and his hips push hard against Tim’s ass.  “You gave away something that wasn’t fucking yours to give.  I’ll drag you back, Timmy.  I’ll carve my name so deep into you it cuts your bones this time.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you, Jack,” Tim says a lot more kindly than Jack really deserves. There’s this weird place of zen that exists in the midst of Jack’s rage.  Tim settles into the eye of his storm and thrives, pain and peace echoing each other in his body.

“No, no, course you’re not,” Jack says. He moves his lips against the nape of Tim’s neck, stroking at his skin with the enameled curves of his teeth.  Tim gasps again. 

There’s been a lot of times that Jack has bitten him, some bites more welcome than others.  When Jack sinks his fangs into the top of Tim’s spine this time, it’s to hurt him.  Tim is hoisted up onto his toes with how hard Jack is pulling his arm backwards and he teeters there, trembling in silent agony while hot blood seeps down his back. 

“H-hey!  Stop that!”

Tim instinctively wants to turn his head but that would be an error.  Doesn’t matter; he already knows that Rhys is there.  Then the knives in his neck retract.

“Hey yourself,” Jack growls at Rhys.  From here, Tim can taste the blood in Jack’s mouth, the scent of it pungent with intermingled pheromones that make him dizzy and sick and hard all at once. “Fuck off, kid, mommy and daddy are busy.”

“Timothy, are you okay?” Rhys asks, ignoring Jack entirely, like a champ.  Playing with fire.

“I said fuck off, asshole.”

“It’s alright, Rhys, I’m fine,” Tim tells him without looking at him.

“Yeah, sure, I’m really convinced right now,” Rhys says.  “Let him go, Jack!”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember introducing myself when I tore a chunk out of you earlier, what was your name again, sweetheart?”

“It’s Rhys.”

“Right, so, Rhys,” Jack says, yanking Tim away from the filing cabinet and turning him bodily so Rhys can see him in full view, shirt rucked up past his nipples, face pale-and-flushed, half-hard in his jeans.  Jack’s other hand goes into Tim’s hair and pulls his head back.  “Check this out: you see li’l Timmy here?  Yeah, he’s in the middle of foreplay time right now so how about you take your voyeuristic ass somewhere I don’t have to deal with it, hm?  You’re not invited to this one.”

“Fuck that,” Rhys says, beet red and fists at his side, shaking.  “You’re sick and I’m not falling for it; let him go!”

“I mean,” Jack says, hooking his chin over Tim’s shoulder, “do you not see him tenting his pants right now? I’m not making that part up.” 

Rhys can’t split dimensions or phase through time.  Whatever might he has is limited by a mortal body and his one advantage against a demon (a.k.a. Tim) is being trussed up and exhibited. 

But he runs at Jack like he’s going to punch him out, fists raised and everything.

Within a single second, Jack releases Timothy’s body, pushes him towards Rhys and winds into the beginning of a strike. In that same second, Tim’s contract circle glows.  He divides reality.  He kicks Jack in the stomach before he can take a single step towards Rhys.  Tim is still connecting the dots together – unifying the actions that have taken place – as he watches Jack crash into a rotting cardboard box full of fiberglass insulation and a tower of tetris’d school desks.

The dust settles a bit; Rhys is on the ground after overcompensating in his reaction to Tim being shoved towards him.  Eyes wide, blinking at the sight of Jack disappearing under the collapsing stack of furniture.

“Uh,” he says.  Jack cusses, “ _Son of a…._ ”

“You okay?” Tim asks Rhys, holding out a hand to help him to his feet and who cares if his shirt’s still up and his jeans are still tight.  Tim knows where his priorities are.  “That was pretty wild.”

“Well,” Rhys says, taking Tim’s hand so he can be hoisted up.  “You said your strength comes from the contract.  So, if I put myself in danger that means you gain power, right?”

Tim stares at Rhys’ self-important smirk and cleverly raised eyebrow.

“That was really stupid but really genius,” he tells him.  Rhys’ pretty, white teeth show and his eyebrows waggle.  “Oh, boy,” Tim mutters, hiding his smile while he adjusts his clothing.  About that time, Jack unburies himself and is back upright. “Did that hurt?” Tim calls out to him, genuinely curious.

“Like a _bitch_ ,” Jack coughs.  “Fuck, Timmy….”

“Don’t hurt Rhys,” Timothy tells him again.  “Don’t even think it.”

“Alright, alright, jeezus….”  Jack rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck and gives Rhys a dirty look that’s all sneer and half again hunger.  “Bet you’re real boring in bed aren’t you? Oh, wait,” Jack interrupts himself with a howl of laughter and Tim glances back to see Rhys’ face going appropriately scarlet, all that self-congratulatory smugness evaporated, “you’re a _virgin_!  Right, god, you probably wouldn’t know kinky if it licked your tight, untouched asshole.”

“Jack,” Tim groans.

“Well since he’s not food anymore maybe you can teach him a thing or two, Tim Tams,” Jack suggests blithely.  Rhys sputters.  “I don’t want to be fucking interrupted next time.” 

Jack doesn’t just bow out, even when the odds are against him.  He gives Rhys a very pointed leer as he passes by him and Tim, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans.  When Rhys flips him off, Jack kisses the air at him which just confirms that, yep, Jack may not try to harm Rhys, but he’s nowhere near done tormenting him.  He’s not even done tormenting Tim and they’ve been at it for quite a fucking while.

“Wow, he is an _asshole_ ,” Rhys says, still watching Jack’s swagger off as he heads back home.  “But…seriously, are you okay?  It looked like he was gonna rape you.”

Tim slings a friendly arm around Rhys’ shoulders and leans in close enough to bump their heads together.  The warmth…it’s returned. 

“Nah, nothing like that,” Tim assures Rhys.  The sigh that comes out is soft and hot against Tim’s cheek.  “Jack plays rough with me.”

“And....  You’re into that?” 

Seriously. The blushing might never get old.

“You want me to kiss and tell about Jack?” Tim decides to tease him.

“N-No,” Rhys says.  “Well, uh….”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Tim says before that conversation can go down the avenue it’s gonna go down.  It just is.  Tim’s done thinking about Jack right now, though.  He’s got his bit of sunshine back, nestled in the usually empty space behind his ribs.  He’d rather hang onto that right now.  Rhys looks relieved anyway, giving Tim a quick nod.

Heart settling (boner settling, thank god), Tim walks side by side with Rhys after mentioning that he has food for him in his minifridge.

“Oh, god, please, I’m starving,” Rhys says.  He’s holding Tim’s hand; he did that on his own.

“I’ve got little cheese wheels and a honeycrisp apple that I’ve been saving,” Tim tells him, squeezing a bit.  Rhys doesn’t even mind.  His palm is sweaty but their fingers are laced; the last dregs of manic thrill that Jack always leaves Tim with are melted away, soothed over by the pressure of Rhys’ hand in his.

“Well, if you’ve been saving it, I don’t wanna take it from you, even though that sounds friggin’ delicious.”

“Nah,” Tim says gently, “I’ve been saving it for today.”

Rhys doesn’t get why but he’s smiling with Tim anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pfff who needs coherency? pacing???? is that a food?
> 
>  
> 
> [check out my tumblr if you like.](http://rednaelo.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows what the hell I’m doing now. All I know is that it’s fantastic bullshit and you should see what kind of nonsense I’m trying to pass off as engaging fiction this time. In this chapter: Tim and Rhys are Cute™ and Gay™ and then Rhys does something Dumb™.
> 
> -Bec

Timothy

“I’m basically his bitch forever,” Timothy is explaining to Rhys as they walk around the perimeter of the Hellhole to Tim’s preferred brooding spot.  “Like, in every sense; it’s not even funny.”

“Doesn’t seem like that’s stopping you from making a joke out of it,” Rhys comments casting a sideways glance to him.

“I cope with humor,” Timothy deadpans.  Rhys snorts and covers his mouth like he didn’t mean for it to happen.  Tim grins.

The copse on the north end is basically a pillow fort made of zero pillows and whatever soft garbage Timothy could find.  Things like trash bags full of clothes and someone’s discarded stuffed animal collection.  Sure, it might be mildewing a bit (a lot) but Timothy puts the grody stuff deeper into the pile so he doesn’t have to deal with it.  The canopy is a tarp stretched between two ballet barres.

“Where’s the ‘No Girls Allowed’ sign?” Rhys asks him when Timothy makes a vaguely grand gesture towards Fort Heathen.

“Ah, damn, I knew I forgot something,” Timothy says, shaking his head. 

“I think once we bust out of here, we should bring you up to speed on how to properly christen your secret hideouts.”

“Right, speaking of that….”  Timothy plops down onto his mountain of plush toys and throws the one that squeaks at Rhys over on the garbage-bean-bag-chair.  It beans Rhys in the head but he just snickers and squeaks it repeatedly in his hands.

“Hahah, couldn’t duck _this_ duck,” Rhys says.  Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Timothy sporfles on his words, head collapsing into his hand so he can laugh.  Maybe it’s because Rhys is just so physically charming that Tim wasn’t expecting him to be so much of a doofus.  But he is.  He apparently works (or did work, anyway) for the big-time robotics manufacturing company Hyperion as a data entry desk jockey and spent his Saturdays playing video games more often than not.

He also likes puns and can do silly things with his eyebrows.

Doofus.

Tim likes him.  Rhys is smiling when Timothy finally picks his head up and shakes off the giggles.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he leads, pointedly, Rhys still giving him that clever grin, “I went over all the options about how we could use our contract to gain leverage and maybe get out of here.  Truth is that I don’t like any of them because every possibility involves putting you in harm’s way.”

The smile slips off and Rhys frowns at the stuffed duck in his lap.

“Guess those are the parameters,” Rhys says.  “I mean, given the circumstances, I’d kinda like to not be here anymore.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Tim says lightly.

“What kind of harm are we talking about?”

Timothy rolls his head back onto his shoulders, staring up at the tarp fluttering gently from the fans.

“I’m already prepared for the eventuality that they might try and take you away when they discover that you’re still alive,” he says.  “You were meant to be sacrificed, not bound to me.  Best of the worst-case scenarios, they stop giving me human food because they know you’ll be eating it and they try to starve you.”

“Yeesh,” Rhys mumbles.

“Worst case, they take you out of here and lock you up to where I can’t get to you.  Ordinarily, the distance between us would have no bearing on whether or not I can protect you.  But there are shackling spells all over this bunker.  There would be nothing I could do.”

Rhys doesn’t look all that distressed – concerned, maybe, but he’s ignorant of what the Eridians do to people they want out of the way.  Timothy isn’t. 

“I mean,” Rhys starts, “from what you’re saying, it sounds like even if we _don’t_ want to put me in harm’s way, it’s still going to happen.”

“There’s no guarantee of it,” Timothy says.  “I’m not the type to go looking for trouble, is all.  Not anymore.”

“Hard lesson to learn?”

“I’m still learning it,” Tim says and makes a gesture to the everything that’s around them.  And then his own face.  “It’s one of those mistakes you only make once.”

“So, I guess we ditch the plan to weaponize our contract and focus more on how to make sure I stay alive.”

“At least until I’ve got a better idea about what the cult is going to do about you.”  Timothy yawns a bit and gazes out into the middle distance.  “Right now, it’s just a big question mark.  I’ve tried saving people in the past but it never worked.  Jack would always show up before I could contract them.  The guys upstairs know that I’ve tried but they haven’t had any words about it other than ‘shut up and eat your food,’ basically.”

“And they could react to me being here pretty badly,” Rhys adds, putting the pieces together.

“Yeah,” Timothy says.  “So I want to see what move they’re going to make first.  Then I can adjust and bargain and threaten and do whatever I need to make sure you’re with me and safe.  I think I’ve got some pretty good leverage.”

“Hoo, boy,” Rhys sighs.

“Never thought your life would get fun like this, did you?” Timothy asks.  He turns his head and grins at Rhys but Rhys looks at him with a lopsided sort of sympathy, like he knows Timothy has asked himself this same sardonic question when the shit really hit the fan.

“Definitely not,” Rhys says.  “I’m glad that you’re here for me, though.  I mean, considering that I was pretty sure I was gonna die.”

“Yeah, that was gonna happen.”

“Right.  And I’m not dead yet, thanks to you!  So that’s swell.”

“You’re welcome,” Timothy sniggers.

“Don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet that we’re gonna be together forever,” Rhys says, his voice kinda petering off at the end when he realizes his words are leaning romantically.  Timothy watches him scrape his teeth over his bottom lip and give a little awkward chuckle; Rhys’ ears are pink.  “But, ah, ah-hahah-ha, that’s, uh….  That’s probably just because it’s only been like, pff, what, three days?”

“The Hellhole is a very small world,” Timothy adds, agreeing. 

“Right.  That too,” Rhys says.  “So, um, when we _do_ get out….  What should we do?”

“You should go back to your life as much as you can,” Timothy tells him.  “It won’t ever be the same but, god, if I could get my life back, I would.  Let me push my fantasies onto you, please.”

Rhys smiles, a little bewildered, and says, “I mean, I was definitely going to do that.  But mostly I was talking about how to make you fit into my life now that you’re going to be a constant.”  His smile shrivels into something more disdainful.  “Jack too, while we’re at it.”

“Uh, well, obviously Jack and I are twins,” Timothy says, because what other explanation is going to work?  People will have questions about the mask but that’s another issue that can be dodged around by pulling the ‘it’s personal; I’d rather not talk about it’ card. 

“Obviously.”

“And, I mean….  Jeez, we’ll have to come up with a reason that you disappeared in the first place, huh.”

“And why I’m coming back with twin brothers.”

“Fun night in Vegas, maybe?”

“Haha,” Rhys says.  Rather than amused, he looks pained.  “That’s excellent, yeah, I’ve always wanted my father to disown me.”

Timothy gives him the same smile Rhys gave him before.  There’s that familiar almost manic light in Rhys’ eyes that Timothy feels like inhabits some of his old-life memories.  Back when family kinda mattered and growing up a disappointment weighed half the world.

“Not out yet?” he asks.

“No,” Rhys says, scoffing at the end of it.  “No, no, never.  Hence the whole….  Um.”

“Why the cult picked you up as a sacrifice,” Tim fills in, kindly.

“Maybe I’m just a romantic at heart,” Rhys says, looking not-at-Tim, arms folded over his chest.

“Well, sure,” Timothy says, smiling at him.  “Same with me, only my romantic ideations led me to the occult and now look at me.”

Diversion tactics help; Rhys loosens his defensive posture and gives Timothy a long stare.  The questions are forming.  Tim can see them in Rhys’ eyes and the way he’s leaning forward, slipping a bit on the garbage bag and then tangling his fingers together in front of himself while he rests his elbows on his knees.

“Feel free to like, completely tell me to fuck off,” Rhys starts with, and it has Tim grinning because he already knows where this is going and he can’t believe he just set himself up for this conversation, “but are you— _were_ you, maybe—in love with Jack?”

Yep, there it is.

“What I was in love with was the thought of being outside of everything,” Timothy says.  “I would fantasize about being better than everyone in a way that no one else could achieve.  About being special.  About not having to worry about anything anymore.  And Jack was a means to an end that ended up showing me what happens when you live in a fantasy.”

Rhys digests it all, nodding.  He looks down at his hands and regroups his thinking and Timothy feels like he owes Rhys the whole truth.  Mostly because, so far, Rhys has been a most excellent friend.

“Wouldn’t say that I was ever in _love_ with him,” Tim says, “but I definitely lusted for him.  And what he could give me.  Mostly I just romanticized the possibilities but those were stomped out pretty quick.”

Rhys sighs, nodding again. 

“Do you…,” he starts to ask.  Then he stops and waves the question away.  “I think what would be easiest would be just to say that you and me and Jack are roommates and go look for a place to live together.”

How’s that for a subject change?  Not that Timothy isn’t kinda grateful for it.

“I like the simplicity,” he says.  “And I know that maybe the prospect of living with Jack forever isn’t appealing but, honestly, when we get out, I can’t imagine him wanting to stay in one place.  He’ll probably skip town the first chance he gets.”

“Oh, good,” Rhys says, perking up.  “That’s settled then.”

“Back to square one on how to get out of here in the first place.”

It’s nice to talk like this, Timothy thinks to himself while he and Rhys keep arriving at the same conclusion that there’s not much they can do right now and diverting to other subjects instead.  It’s been a long time since Timothy has had to get to know someone.  He knows Jack front and back and inside and out and could write manifestos on him if he wanted.  Fucker would probably love it, king of narcissism that he is.

Rhys is still revealing himself, detail by detail, in the ways that his cadence rises and falls when he speaks and in his incredibly expressive face.  He’s told Timothy who he is by giving vague answers about the people he’s had crushes on in the past and interjecting the silence with how he could really go for some mashed potatoes right now.  Maybe in his old life, meeting someone new was a mundane and sometimes inconsequential occurrence.  But Rhys is _his_ , for better or worse.  There’s a whole new context to frame him

And it really does sound romantic.  Timothy is still wondering if thinking of it – of the two of them – like that is okay.  The war of want and doubt tangles between the lessons Tim has learned in hindsight and the optimism that he couldn’t ever rid himself of. 

Rhys grins at him and throws the stuffed duck at Tim’s face.

“Come on back, space cadet,” he says and Tim chuckles an apology.  “Make any new discoveries while you were up there?”

“Nah, just stargazing,” Timothy says.  He looks at the back of Rhys’ hand and thinks that he’d like to hold it.  Maybe Rhys is gonna be the rest of his life and maybe that means he has all the time in the world to learn to be courageous with him.  Maybe he also has a contract that he can use as a convenient excuse.  “’s it cool if I hold your hand for a bit?”

Nice, real casual.  Had the nonchalant tone and mildly-interested-without-being-too-invested face down.  ‘Course that all goes to pieces when Rhys’ smile freezes unnaturally and he starts fidget-laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, totally cool,” Rhys says, scooching forward on his garbage-bag seat and then slipping off of it. “Whoa, heh, haha.  Slippery….”  Timothy feels like his head is gonna launch off of his own neck from how hot he’s suddenly running. 

Rhys just slides to his knees and reaches his hand out and Tim takes it.

In theory, it all makes sense.  Contracts are intrinsically bound to the life force of both human and demon – Timothy knows this.  Keeping the contract fulfilled is strengthening.  Breaking the contract means annihilation.  Logically – even evolutionarily – having a physiological reaction to satisfying the terms of the contract makes sense. 

It’s a very pretty way of justifying pulling Rhys a little closer, and the way Tim hones in on Rhys’ lips parting just so.

“Is this okay?” Tim asks Rhys while he tries to make room for him in the weird nest of stuffed animals he’s inhabiting.  Their fingers lace between them.  The pleasure centers of Timothy’s brain are glowing gold and warm.

“Yeah, this is fine,” Rhys answers in a murmur, like he’s afraid he’s going to scare the feeling off if he talks too loudly.  “It’s really weird,” an even quieter whisper, “but it’s fine.”

“Sure it’s okay?”

“ _It’s okay_ ,” Rhys assures him. “It’s ‘at my willingness’, isn’t it?”

Timothy smiles a little.  He wrote, word for word, the contract that he created with Rhys on a torn page from his notebook.  The gleam in Rhys’ eyes is so confident and proud; he’s waiting to be praised for his diligence in memorizing it. 

“That’s right,” is what Tim says.

“I doubt I would feel like this if I wasn’t willing.”

Timothy closes his eyes gently, feeling his stomach flutter up into his throat.  It does, it feels so good.  He grips Rhys’ hand a little tighter.

“I wonder if what you’re feeling is the same as what I’m feeling,” he says.  The lights snap into the night cycle; the drone of fluorescence is suddenly hushed and Rhys answers even more quietly.

“Maybe use your words and we’ll find out.”

“Ass.”  Tim is grinning.

“Just saying.”

“I mean, I feel good but also hungry,” Tim says instead of telling Rhys he’d like to kiss him.

Rhys just laughs and the idea of nibbling at his smiling lips sounds like the best thing in the world.  With Rhys near and warm and laughing into the space where they’re both breathing, the secondary understanding of Timothy’s _hunger_ doesn’t hit him with as much terror as it probably should.  Hunger means the demonic sort, not the tedium of scrounging up enough snacks to make his stomach full. 

Hunger means dismantling flesh to nourish his inter-dimensional stability with another’s life force.  And the last meal that fell in here is holding Timothy’s hand, saying something about going back to the garage so they can get food.

“No,” Timothy says, the carefree thoughts of kissing Rhys now suffocating under dread, “no, not that kind of hungry.”  He tucks his chin to his chest, shamed and ravenous.  God, and the next victim they drop down here is definitely going to be Jack’s.   He still sneers and snaps at them both when they’re within range, cheated out his meal and a chance to make Timothy suffer.  Next sacrifice will be his and definitely won’t be sharing. 

Hunger is a bone-deep feeling now for Timothy, not just a cramp in his gut.  Maybe beneath Rhys’ company, the revitalizing sparkle of New that he is in Tim’s life, it was easy to stop counting the days.  Easy to skip writing in his journal about the tedium in order to try and justify continuing to live.  Easy to lose thoughts of wearisome self-preservation in favor of having someone else to live for. 

It was just easier to hold Rhys’ hand and feel the starlight glow it gave him.

So when Rhys shifts forward, Tim is dizzy behind his thoughts and misses the signals that lead to Rhys kissing him on the bridge of his nose.  It’s a surprise.  Tim gasps and sighs, one after the other in the same second.  It’s a chaste thing….  But Rhys’ lips are gentle, if a little chapped and when Tim nudges up against him a little, he gets another kiss against the apple of his cheek.  His heart quakes behind his ribs like thunder.

“I was going to do it…properly,” Rhys admits in a whisper, “but I chickened out, I’m sorry.”

“God,” is all Timothy says.  He feels red from his nose to his ears and all the way down his neck.  The burst of warmth and wonder that those kisses gave him is lingering.  Timothy lets go of Rhys’ hand and slips his fingers behind Rhys’ neck instead, finally picking up his head to look him in the eye.  He’s blushing.  Even in the dark, Timothy can see it splotched across Rhys’ cheeks.  But his eyes are shining.

Timothy decides he needs to come up with different ways to define the hunger that he experiences because right now, he is hungry for Rhys.  But not like he’s been hungry for anything or anyone else.

“Properly?” he goes on to say.  Interjections alone don’t lend much to conversations and watching Rhys’ face fall from cautious delight to anxious anticipation in the silence was putting a damper on things.

“Yeah,” Rhys says, and his freed fingers touch Timothy’s chin.  Not quite his lips….  Close enough.

If Rhys’ mouth gets anywhere near Tim’s, there’s no way he could resist biting, scraping his teeth along warm and tender flesh, just to draw a bit of blood.  And that would definitely be a breach of contract.

But he wants to kiss….

“Wow, ain’t this cute?”

It’s entirely possible that one day, Timothy will find the wherewithal to make himself kill Jack.  He has the means, he knows how to strengthen himself to get to that point and it definitely is possible.  Especially for Tim. 

He can’t right now, no matter how much he’d really like to. 

Timothy’s anger is a little snuffed under the spastic flailing that Rhys gives in response to being startled.  He lets go of Timothy’s hand like it was burning him and yelps and falls off the animal pile, scooting away from Jack without really picking himself up off the ground.  Jack just stands offside and sneers and shows his teeth and says, “Hey, cupcake.  You too, morsel.”

Who is who in this list of sarcastic and edible endearments is up for debate. Tim doesn’t even make an attempt to figure it out.

“What do you want, Jack?” he asks, sitting up and getting to his feet.  Maybe on his own he would’ve just stayed horizontal but he still doesn’t completely trust Jack with Rhys.  For obvious fucking reasons.

“Ah, babe, you know exactly what I want,” Jack says, hands on his hips.  His eyes are vibrant in the dark.  They’re both ravenous, he and Jack.  “In a little bit, our favorite friends are gonna come down and start asking questions about your little boyfriend there.”

Rhys is finally getting to his feet.  He stands half a step behind Timothy’s left shoulder and smells like sweat soaking through his shirt.

“Thanks for the head’s up,” Timothy says, brow creasing.  “So what do you want?”

“Like I said, you know what I want,” Jack repeats.  He says nothing but gives that familiar cryptic smile that has more than once set the gears in motion to achieve his ends.  Especially when Timothy is beholden to it.  A devious sort of smirk that has Tim’s throat drying up and his bones feeling heavy in his skin.  

The weighted silence goes on long enough for Rhys to pipe up saying, “How about instead of being some secretive asshole, you just say what you mean?”

“Boytoy wants me to spell it out,” Jack mocks, folding his arms over his chest while he tosses a nasty look over Timothy’s shoulder.  Tim just rolls his eyes.  This explanation isn’t going to be fun.

But he doesn’t get the chance to do it because in the next moment, the hatch is creaking open and banging shut again, the artificial nighttime being dialed back into light while they all stand there and blink.

“Well, shit,” Timothy mumbles.

“Better deliver for me,” Jack says, and slinks off underneath the tarp of Tim’s little fort so he can be in the shadows and keep his hands clean which is so goddamn ironic that Timothy thinks he might commit suicide later from laughing too hard.

“Stay behind me, okay, Rhys?” Timothy says, looking over his shoulder.  Rhys doesn’t look particularly frightened.  Nervous, maybe.  Unsure of what’s to come.  Still kinda squinting because of the lights.  He takes a deep breath and says,

“Yeah, sure, I can do that.”

In theory, all of the cult members have names.  Maybe Timothy’s even heard a couple of them.  This guy has a name; Tim knows it.  But in his mind, the one that comes marching up to them, looking very convincingly ominous in his long black cloak is Warden.  The jailkeep.  The asshole in charge of the door.

“Well, well, lookie here,” Jack says from the shadows because how could he _not_? Underneath the hood, Warden’s eyes are plasma splotches of sharp violet - from being mind-fucked by their weird demonic artifacts that they worship.  Warden says nothing to Jack and just glares at Timothy who stands with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slouched.  He’s sure the casual act is very convincing.

“Why does this one still live?” Warden asks.  Rhys takes a scuffed step back beneath the hard-gesturing finger that Warden aims at him.  “Why haven’t you eaten him?  Why hasn’t Handsome Jack eaten him?”

Jack always gets the title added.  Still revered no matter how much of a dickhole he is.

“We can’t eat Rhys,” Timothy says.  One of the shackling spells includes honest answers to any question asked but it’s one of those spells that doesn’t work too well with the particular circle the cult used to seal it.  It’s not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God, because God ain’t helping no one in this neck of the garbage mounds.  The vague admittance is enough to satisfy.

Though Warden doesn’t seem too satisfied.  Timothy can hear Jack chuckling in the darkness, can feel him watching everything.  This is going to go exactly how he wants it.

“Is he unworthy?” Warden continues, baffled by the possibility even as he says it.  The cult has a team devoted singularly to finding virgins to kidnap and throw into this pit.  Unworthy is their fancy word for deflowered. 

“He’s fine,” Timothy says.

“You,” Warden snaps at Rhys now.  Timothy’s hands clench in his pockets.  “You’re coming with me.”  He takes one step around Timothy and lifts his hand.

And that’s enough.

Timothy reaches out, snags Warden by the neck, digs his nails into the layers of skin and shreds his throat out. It’s real gory: a gush of blood from ripped-up meat that hangs over Warden’s chest like some macabre pendant and he’s on the ground in a slump.  Timothy doesn’t look but under the victorious laughter coming from his cozy little fort, Rhys is whimpering and groaning and has walked away to retch somewhere offside.  Timothy sighs and thinks about how a few minutes ago, they could’ve been kissing.

Fat chance of that happening now.

“Well, Timmy, my boy, you really deliver when I need you to,” Jack says, coming to start ripping the clothes off of Warden’s body.  “For that, I’ll let you take half.”

“How generous of you,” Timothy says lamely.

“I know, right, I’m just the very essence of goodwill.”

Timothy ignores Rhys because he literally can’t think about anything else right now and crouches down to help Jack.  He eats.  They eat together and sometimes Jack licks blood off his mouth and they aren’t being too quiet about it.  Timothy might lean into those mauling kisses a little more than he usually does but doesn’t recognize the instinct for the loneliness that it’s stemming from.  He will later, once he’s full enough to leave the leftovers to Jack and goes back to the garage.

Rhys is laying in the bed, curled up, back to the world, the faint scent of bile clinging to him.  Timothy takes off his bloodied shirt and gives himself a wash-down in the displaced bathtub out in front of the garage.  Least they got the water working in the pipes again; the pithy cake of soap scrubs away the stains and the old garden hose washes it all away into the sewage grate.

“I’m sorry,” Timothy says, hoping that maybe he isn’t actually heard over the sound of the water running.  So he hopes, but at the same time he doesn’t shut up so the chances of being just ignored diminish.  “I’m literally a monster and I’m sorry for scaring you.  It’s going to happen again.”

Because it is.  They’re contracted for life.

Rhys rolls over and the boxspring creaks unhappily; the noise draws Timothy’s attention and he sits on the edge of the tub with his bare back towards Rhys but looks over his shoulder because looking away now after how he’d forgotten about Rhys amidst his hunger feels like definition cowardice.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about,” Rhys tells him, voice cracking a bit at first while he tries to gain volume.  “Best solution? Let’s make sure whenever you eat…people.  Let’s try and make sure I’m not there.”

“That’s it?” Timothy asks. 

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Rhys says, shrugging one shoulder more than the other since he’s lying on his side.  “That was fucking awful, though, okay? I don’t want to see that again.”

“Okay,” Timothy says, taking a deep breath and letting his head hang.

“Great, so, will you sleep with me on the bed tonight instead of on the floor?” Rhys continues.  “Like, it’s real gentlemanly of you, but after all we’ve been through today, I’m just gonna say that I’ve been wanting to be the big spoon if you’ll let me.”

Timothy can’t believe that he ever got so lucky.

“You been daydreaming about spoonin’ me, Rhys?” he asks as he finishes drying off and pulls on a cleaner shirt.  Not clean.  Just cleaner.

“I mean, if kissing you earlier wasn’t a hint…,” Rhys says, rolling his eyes and pushing himself up a bit.  They shift and scooch and make room for each other and they don’t spoon but Rhys gets his arms around Timothy and they start murmur-arguing about the first kind of ice cream they’re going to eat when they eventually bust out (Pistachio vs. Moose Tracks).  They kiss real gently a few times and it’s perfect because Jack doesn’t show up to interrupt them at all.

 

Rhys

Timothy is called up and before he goes he gives Rhys a long look and a little smile, saying, “Hope they don’t torture the shit outta me for killing him.”

It’s supposed to be a joke but Rhys doesn’t really find it funny.  He watches Timothy leave with his hands in his jacket pockets and the terrible sink in the pit of Rhys’ stomach is in high contrast to the way his heartbeat is having a nice panic, running around in his veins out of control. 

He already decided on it last night, safe in Timothy’s arms, comforted by the smell of that generic soap that Timothy had used to wash the blood away.  He didn’t _have_ to, but he did it for Rhys.  And when Rhys had put his nose against Timothy’s neck and felt the preternatural peace that came when their skin met, he realized his one option.

Rhys’ contract with Timothy wasn’t going to get them out, wasn’t going to save any of them.  So Rhys would have to make another one.

Finding Jack is easy.  Rhys marches himself back to the garage and Jack is there, standing in the bathtub that’s out front, wearing only his jeans and literally hosing himself off.

“Jack,” Rhys calls to him, fists tight.

“What.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, boy, this should be hilarious,” Jack says and throws the hose off to one side, flipping his hair back and splashing Rhys in the face doing so.  Rhys flinches, droplets splattering over his eyes and cheeks.

“Ugh….”

“Well, spit it out, buttercup, you’re wasting my life here.”  Jack stands there with his hands on his bare hips and Rhys’s eyes widen a bit.  He’s not wearing the mask.  Beneath it, his features are just like Timothy’s.  Only there’s a bright brand cutting across them in an arc.  One eye is glowing milky-white.  “Keep this up, I’m gonna start charging,” Jack snaps Rhys out of his reverie. 

“Ahem,” Rhys clears his throat, turning away to hide his bit of flush.  “Jack, I want to make a contract with you.”

Admittedly, Jack’s reaction isn’t as bad as Rhys thought it would be.  But, then again, he didn’t predict Jack breaking into excessive, mocking laughter, complete with a pointing finger and an arm clenching Jack’s gut from where he’s doubled over, shaking.

“Oh!  Oh, holy crap.  Fuck no!” Jack presses out through the giggles.  “Oh my god, you are out of your goddamn mind….”

“Why not?” Rhys asks.  He’s only offended because Jack is laughing at him and not because doing this is a bad idea.  Okay, actually, it’s a horrible idea.  But for the problems that Rhys has been presented with, it’s literally foolproof.  If Jack will stop laughing long enough to hear him out.

“Because you suck,” Jack says, as if that explains everything.  “Listen, kiddo, I don’t contract with humans.  That’s for demons who don’t know how to feed themselves without getting caught.  I do my shit the old-fashioned way.”

“Crossroads and dueling fiddles?” Rhys supposes, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.  Jack sneers at him.  That eye is way more than a little unnerving.  (Those abs are _chiseled_ as hell, though.  And wet….)

“Aren’t you fucking clever,” Jack derides him.  “My point is that I don’t rely on anyone, especially not grimy mortals like you.  You’re food.  And annoying.”

“Well, alright, fine, you can think that,” Rhys says, affecting nonchalance.  “Then I guess I won’t contract you to help me break out of here so we can all leave.”

Rhys couldn’t have planned that drop better if it were scripted.  Jack shuts up immediately.  Not just his words, his entire body turns towards Rhys and he stares at him.  Continuously.  Silent.

….

Unnerving.

Rhys takes a step to the side (not backwards, no, that would be an error).

Uh….

“Alright, cupcake, I’m listening,” Jack says, and he steps out of the bathtub to start prowling after Rhys.  Fuck, this is a mistake….

“It’s just like I said,” Rhys says, swallowing back his fear.  He puts his hand over the place where Jack bit him a few nights ago when he was first dropped into the Hellhole.  “Timothy and I can’t find a way to make our contract work to jailbreak us.  So I figured our next best option would be for me to make a contract with you.”  Jack is leaning over him now, actively pressing into Rhys’ space.  Rhys stares right back up and refuses to break eye contact.  “Timothy says that the contract made him strong, gave him the abilities to do what he needed to keep it fulfilled.  And obviously you can’t get out on your own power; you would’ve done it already.  So if I make a contract for you to get us out, then you can do it.  …right?”

Rhys watches Jack’s lips move; from what he can tell, Jack is running his tongue along his fangs without actually opening his mouth.  He sucks on his teeth and tilts his head to one side.

“I think you need to dream a little bigger,” Jack says softly, like a threat.

Rhys shivers but doesn’t let it show, biting his lip a moment.

“Uh…what?” he asks.

“Contract me to break us out, fine,” Jack says, “but that’s _one_ thing.  That’s chump change.  I don’t do small operations, kiddo, I’m in it for the jackpot.”  He smirks.  Rhys has to try very hard not to roll his eyes.  Very, very hard.  “Let’s negotiate your sad, little terms.  How ‘bout instead of just breaking us out, you contract me to give you the ability to overcome anything that’s in the way of you getting what you want?  Yeah, something a little more permanent, like that.”

Rhys blinks.  He was just concerned about getting back to his life, making sure Timothy wouldn’t have to be under the cult’s thumb anymore.  Jack is flinging them far into the future.  And in the silence, while Rhys considers, he can see the possibilities taking shape.

He could get out of his desk-jockeying stint at Hyperion.  Move up the ranks.  Make more money.  Get a better apartment.  Have literally _anything_ he ever wanted.  Rhys’ heart is fluttering.  So hard that he’s not really seeing Jack grinning down at him like he’s about to swallow him whole.

When Rhys does notice, his cheeks are all flushed and his eagerness comes spilling out.

“I like that better,” he tells Jack.

“’Course you do, babycakes, it’s all about what gets you to the top,” Jack says.  His eyes keep flicking over Rhys and his smile has less teeth now but is no less menacing.  “See, I know what I’m about.  Take it from an old pro: why settle for just anything when you can have it all?  Speaking of which, let’s talk about what you’re gonna do for me….”

Ah, right.  Contracts go two ways.  Rhys leaves behind the endorphin-rush of being able to have anything he wants and focuses back on reality again.  This is gonna be the ugly part, that’s for sure.

“What?” Rhys asks.  Jack’s smile is playing at being sweet but he’s winding an arm around Rhys’ shoulders and tugging him close and Rhys believes this might be the last thing he sees in life.  Jack’s arm is strong and solid at his back.

“Let me have your body,” Jack says, so gently.  Rhys’ face is instantly red and his stomach clenches.

“Uhh,” he starts because somehow he knew that Jack might say something like that but it still caught him off guard.  “You can’t possibly mean you just wanna f-fuck me.”

“It’s all in the details, isn’t it?” Jack says.  His hand slides across Rhys’ back, a thumb stroking the nape of Rhys’ neck.  “I mean I want to have all the executive decisions about your little meatsuit, pumpkin.”  Jack tucks his fingers under Rhys’ jaw and gently tilts his head this way and that.  “You get to have nothing stand in your way and I get to decide what you wear.  How you look.  What you eat.  Who you fuck and how you do it.”  Every word has anxiety curling up like nausea in Rhys’ gut.  This is the worst decision of his entire life, this.  Jack is now holding his hips and pulling him close so their thighs line up against each other.    “You can keep those choices when I don’t give a shit but you give up your right to say no to anything I want you to do.”

“That’s insane,” Rhys whispers, horrified.

“Isn’t it?” Jack says, glee sparkling cruelly in his eyes.

“You can’t go against Timothy’s contract with me,” Rhys says because that’s the only thing that’s defending him now.

“When did I say I was going to do that?  It’s fine, they can work together, we can all get along,” Jack says.  He doesn’t seem inhibited in the slightest.  “Just means you don’t have to worry about me damaging you, do you?  Can’t hurt you or kill you.  See?  It’s not that bad.  Perfectly reasonable demand.”

“You could still humiliate me,” Rhys says.  His hands are pressing against Jack’s chest.  Trying to distance himself, maybe?  Perhaps at first.  Something sweet and earthy and heavy is filling Rhys’ nose and he’s half convinced the smell is wafting from Jack’s neck.  His fingers tighten a little.  “Make me do something that will cost me my friends or my job or my dignity.”

“As if any of that stuff would actually matter,” Jack says.  “Remember, I’m offering you everything you could ever want.  Even if what you want is to have your lame friends back.  It’s a fair trade.  It’s worth what you’ll be getting forever.”

“I don’t like it,” Rhys says quietly.   He turns away from Jack but gasps in the next second when Jack leans in, skimming the bridge of his nose along Rhys’ jaw.  That fragrance presses into his lungs and fills up his mouth.  When Rhys swallows it, his eyes roll back in his head and the tension in his neck and shoulders suddenly loses its strength.  He might be imagining Jack’s lips on his throat but he also might be imagining his whole life ever being real.

“Don’t have to like it, Rhysie,” Jack is saying, a low, lovely sound in Rhys’ ear.  Rhys holds onto him because there’s nothing else for him to cling to.  Jack’s arms are steady behind Rhys’ back.  “But you know it’s what you want.”

“Stop,” Rhys says.  He pushes against Jack’s chest.  “Stop, stop, let go of me.”

“A’right, fine.”  Jack lets go. 

Rhys falls onto the ground and takes a long breath, his head clearing, vision coming back into focus.  Holy crap.  Jack is laughing again, though less hysterically this time.  Now he just sounds like a cartoon villain. 

“What the hell were you doing?” Rhys asks, pulling his fingers nervously through his hair.

“Not my fault you’re so weak to my charms,” is all Jack says.  He’s perched himself on the rim of the bathtub, legs stretched out in front of him while he smirks down at Rhys.

“Asshole,” Rhys grumbles.  Probably some sort of demonic trick….  “If we’re going through with those insane terms, I want some caveats,” Rhys says.  Jack snorts at him but Rhys doesn’t let that stop him.  “I want more flexibility.  If you tell me to do something, I want to be able to decide when I do it.”

“I’ll give you five minutes after I command you,” Jack says.

“Twenty-four hours,” Rhys haggles back.

Jack rolls his eyes, arms folded over his chest.

“Two minutes,” he says.  Rhys scowls at him because now he’s just being an obtuse jerk on purpose.

“C’mon, Jack, give me an hour, at least,” Rhys says. “What if I’m in the middle of work or like driving or something?”

“I told you I can’t do anything that would get you killed,” Jack says.

“Doesn’t mean it won’t make it more difficult for me.  One hour.”

“Ugh, fine.  You’re not fun at all.”

“This is the rest of my friggin’ life we’re talking about here,” Rhys snaps at him.  “I have to get it right the first time.”

Jack, surprisingly, says nothing.  He just sits there on the bathtub with his arms folded over his bare chest, staring down at Rhys with his head tilted, considering him.  Rhys feels like he should be back on his feet but whatever Jack did to him made his muscles uncooperative.  Floor-sitting it is.

“What can I _expect_ you to ask of me?” Rhys says, fully aware that Jack might just laugh in his face.

“Never had a pet before,” Jack says lightly.  “Timmy doesn’t really count, he’s in his own category.”

“Yeah, I know how you treat _him_ ,” Rhys mutters.

“Wondering if I’m gonna fuck you too, precious?” Jack says and Rhys glares at him, lip twitching a bit.  “Don’t worry, I will.  Yeah, but that’s just par for the course, innit?”

“Thanks for the warning, I guess,” Rhys says with the utmost of his nonexistent sincerity.

It’s not like the prospect of having sex with Jack is all terrible.  Even with that monstrous looking face, he’s not unattractive.  Rhys thinks Timothy is handsome, after all.  And when Jack has his mask on, they look just alike (except the freckles on Timothy’s cheeks).  And, given Timothy’s contract, Jack won’t be able to hurt him when they have sex.  So…. 

So it won’t be all that bad.  Whenever it happens.  Maybe….  Rhys sighs and rubs his fingers against themselves nervously.  Maybe he can ask Timothy if they can have sex first before Jack gets to him.  Maybe he’d even agree to it.  That would be good.  That would be….  It’d be wonderful, actually.  Better than giving his first time to the likes of Jack, who wants to swallow Rhys’ ability to consent like it’s a piece of chocolate.

“Yeah, and you know, other stuff,” Jack is saying, and Rhys decides that he should probably be paying attention.  “Just choices about your body and what you do with it.  You can take care of the useless stuff like when to go to the shitter or clean yourself but just be my doll all the other times.  Yeah, think of it like that.  So, not pet.  Just toy.”  Jack leers.  Rhys thinks he might hate him.

Timothy and his promises of constancy are the lifeline keeping Rhys from drowning in the maelstrom of Jack’s eyes and his teeth and his self-satisfied laughter.

“Fine, let me state the terms, then,” Rhys says, now standing up properly.  He wobbles on his footing, listing to one side before finding stability.  Jack is looking right at him, expectant (bored) and Rhys takes a slow breath, trying to keep his hands from shaking while he remembers how Timothy formed their contract those nights ago.  He starts with his own sacrifice.

“I do swear,” Rhys says, thinking about those three words written out for him on a scrap of notebook paper and how he better memorize this one from the get-go, “to surrender agency of my body to Jack, my contractor.”  Rhys pauses to wet his throat with a swallow.  “My contractor, who stands before me.  I do swear to obey his commands concerning any aspect of my body within one hour after they’re spoken—”

“Or otherwise communicated,” Jack interrupts.  Rhys blinks. Jack makes an impatient motion with his hand.

“Or otherwise communicated,” Rhys addends.  So…written commands too. 

“Yeah, actually,” Jack says, rising from his perch on the tub, “might wanna say ‘swear to initiate his commands’ ‘cuz what if I like, want you to get plastic surgery or something?  Might take more than an hour.”

“Are you serious?” Rhys says.  His whole stalwart and sober recitation is completely thrown off its groove.  “Plastic surgery for what?!”

“I dunno, to put tits on you or something, whatever,” Jack says, dismissive.  “You know what, forget the time constraints.  Just say you’ll obey me and leave it vague so we can make it work and if you just say you will and don’t, just know that I’ll make you regret it.”  He smiles.  Rhys is not smiling back.

“Guess I’ll start over,” he says.  “I do swear to surrender agency of my body to Jack, my contractor, who stands before me.  I do swear to obey his commands concerning any aspect of my body.”

“Yeah, concise, love it, keep going, babe.”

Rhys rolls his eyes.

“In exchange for surrendering my consent to anything and everything, Jack will empower me with the means to overcome any obstacle I face in pursuit of my goals.”

“Vague is the best way to do it,” Jack says.  Rhys has his doubts.  The vagueness might be good for flexibility but terrible for loopholes.  Something in this contract is going to make him regret.  He’s already regretting.

“Do you agree to the terms?” he asks Jack, wanting to get this mistake over with so he can have his life back.

“Agreed.  Let’s seal it up, baby, c’mere.”

And Rhys goes.  He stated the contract, so it’s up to Jack to seal the deal, however he wants. He steps forward into Jack’s space and just lets himself be carried along, pulled in by greedy fingers.  Jack has his hands basically right on his ass (not quite but might as well be) and his branded face is frowning down at Rhys’ red cheeks and pressed-thin lips.

“Think normally, I’d bite you,” he says to Rhys.  “But if I do that, Tim’ll kill me.  Let’s be G-rated; pucker up.”

So he says but what Jack does is _lick_ against Rhys’ lips, making him gasp, and then gently pull Rhys’ tongue between his needle-sharp teeth to suck on it. 

The perfume is back, that heady, overwhelming scent that invades Rhys while his body melts into Jack’s.  His fists clench against Jack’s chest and he makes a soft noise – a protest or a plea – before giving up and letting a shudder loosen his muscles.  There’s a whisper of something at Rhys’ awareness and when Jack finally lets him go to reach for his mask and put it back on, he sees a very familiar circle winding its way around Jack’s wrist.  It’s actually identical to Timothy’s.  They match again.

“That’s it, then,” Rhys says, mostly to himself.  Jack’s hand is still on him: possessive, maybe?  He secures the mask back in place.

“Sure is,” Jack says.  “Welp, gone and got myself hitched to the likes of you, guess we better do something fun with it.”  Rhys blinks at Jack and panics at the smile that he finds.  “Kneel.”

Rhys waits a moment, just to see if he can.  And he can.  He doesn’t feel a compulsion to obey.  But the longer he stays standing, the nastier the back of his throat feels.  Rhys coughs a couple times.  Like he’s got a tonsil stone the size of a jellybean he’s trying to dislodge.  When he just sighs and gives in, sinking down to his knees, the irritation goes away, replaced by something else altogether.

It’s not like the tender, delicate glow that surrounds him whenever he and Timothy touch.  It’s more like a blaze.  A sudden transmutation from marrow to molten metal in his bones.  A fire at the back of his mouth with teeth turned to razors.  Rhys feels like the world under his body is his to swallow and subjugate.

He lifts his head to look at Jack and Jack is halfway between remembering how to breathe and rubbing his dick through his jeans.  Is he blushing?   It’s only visible on his neck now that the mask it is up but Rhys is too far away to tell and the lighting is awful.

“Damn,” Jack says, smile beautiful and terrible, “you should see the way you look right now.  Holy shit.”

“You feel it too,” Rhys says.  Experiments with Timothy pointed evidence to the fact that when contract terms are met, there’s a positive effect for both of them.  Same should be true for Jack, if all contracts are like this.  What’s interesting is the different…flavors. 

“Shit, now I know why others always get it up for contracting with losers like you,” Jack says.  He takes a seat on the bathtub again, this time moving his bare feet so they rest against the tops of Rhys’ thighs.  “Imagine how good that’ll be when I’m bossing you around in bed.”

Rhys closes his eyes and shudders and imagines it and that’s enough to make the feeling come back.  A surge of plasma from the base of his spine up to his skull. 

And then the hatch bangs and Rhys takes a deep breath.

He stands.  And it isn’t difficult or painful and doesn’t leave that grossness at the back of his throat.  Jack lets him, even.  Only when Rhys is at his feet again, Jack says, “C’mere,” again, and pats his thigh.  Rhys goes, even though he wants to turn and look for Timothy (he hopes to god it’s Timothy).  He sits on Jack’s thigh and turns away from that smirk when Jack says, “Stay put for now.”

If only it didn’t feel so uncharacteristically empowering just to obey him.  Rhys closes his eyes again to catalogue the sensation: like a line of ignited gasoline burning him from vein to vein.  He could incinerate planets if that were what he wanted.

“Rhys?” Timothy says and Rhys opens his eyes to look at him.  He’s unharmed.  At least on the surface.  The relief is almost instant, like a soothing balm right after the flames that have razed him through.  Rhys wants to be in his arms; Timothy’s hands seem to flutter and struggle against an impulse to reach for him as he draws near.  “Rhys, are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Rhys assures him.  And then he gets up from his place on Jack’s thigh.  Yeah, the flexible interpretation is helping so far.  At least until Jack learns to manipulate it to his own wants.  Rhys will take what he can get.  He holds Timothy’s hands and pulls him right into a hug and it’s like his heart has settled in for a nap beneath an autumn sun.  He never wants to leave this.

“Jack, what the fuck?” Timothy is saying over Rhys’ shoulder but it’s fine because his hands are in Rhys’ hair and snug around Rhys’ waist and _who cares about Jack_.

“Your little snuggle-bug there is actually a secret smarty-pants,” Jack says.  And then there’s silence but Rhys feels a gasp blossoming up through Timothy’s chest.

“Oh, no, Rhys, you didn’t,” Timothy says.  Mournful.  Rhys holds him tighter.

“Hey, you’ll keep me safe,” is all he says and he says it like they’re the words he’s going to live the rest of his life by.  Timothy clutches him back.

“I’ll always keep you safe,” he promises.

“That’s nice,” Jack says.  “So, guess what, we’re busting out of here tomorrow because I’m not sticking around this shithole any longer than I have to.”

Rhys frowns.  He pulls himself far enough from Timothy to turn around and look at Jack but doesn’t actually let him go.

“So wouldn’t it make more sense that we just go now?”

“Well, that’d be great,” Jack says like he’s talking to a preschooler and steadily becoming more impatient, “only I need more mojo to bust through all the fucking shackling spells they have on every inch of goddamn everything than what I got from you doing a little Simon-Says with me, Rhysie.  So we’re gonna have to play a while before I can get the big guns out, got it?”

“Jeez, alright, that’s all you had to say,” Rhys says.

“What did you give him?” Timothy asks Rhys.

“Obedience,” Rhys says, giving a sheepish not-smile to Timothy’s look of abject despair.  His eyes are mismatched rings, wide and full of compassion and maybe a snap of PTSD flashbacks.  Rhys puts his hands against Timothy’s neck and strokes his jaw and it helps only because it makes Timothy’s eyes close.  He hopes it soothes away whatever hurts.

“Keep your panties on, Timmy, I’ll let you chaperone,” Jack tells him.  “I mean, I’m still gonna fuck his brains out but you can hold his hand through the scary parts.”

“Dammit Jack,” Timothy mutters. 

“It’s like your catchphrase,” Rhys comments, trying to laugh.  Timothy, thankfully, gives a resigned chuckle. 

“It’s gonna be yours too,” Timothy says.  And he leans in and touches their foreheads together.  “I’m working on a new one though, goes like this: dammit, Rhys.  What do you think?”

“Probably will see a lot of use,” Rhys says, smiling because his life is a shitshow now but Timothy is still an angel despite all evidence to the contrary.

“They bitchslap you up there or what?” Jack calls over while he goes poking around his side of the garage.

“Interrogated,” Timothy says.  He and Rhys go hand and hand to their bed and settle there.  “Tried to figure out how I could break the Harm None spell over them and I had to fess up about the contract.  They didn’t like that.  Pretty sure they’re going to try and convince you to kill me.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Jack says, all smug as he pulls up a stashed bottle of scotch and flicks the cap off. 

“Yeah, looks like it,” Timothy sighs.  Rhys leans into him a little more. 

It is a better idea.  It gets them all out. 

Jack drinks his booze and Rhys holds tight to Timothy and Timothy holds him back and says, “It’ll be good to get out.”

Then Jack slinks on over and climbs up on the bed over them both, and puts his boner against Rhys’ butt, grinning.

“This is gonna be what the rest of my life is,” Rhys says, burying his blushing face against Timothy’s neck while he lifts his hips a little bit.

Jack says, “Hell yeah,” the same time Timothy says, “I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that wankfest because it took me forever to get here and I'm not even sure if it's the blood i wanted to squeeze from this particular stone but you know what, we're having fun, right? Let's just enjoy the wank and blood and see where I'll wank and bleed us to next. [/attempted coherency]
> 
>  
> 
> [check out my tumblr if you like.](http://rednaelo.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for the smut include, in no particular order: #first time, #threesome, #premature ejaculation, #Dom/sub elements, #kinky effects of demon magic, #fellatio, #sex toys, #voyeurism, #anal sex, #Jack being a Greedy Asshole, #cum drinking, #creampies, and #post-coital snuggling. Enjoy that.

Jack

The bed is an XL twin which might be a little longer than usual (because, Christ, the legs on that boy, he needs the room) but it’s not gonna work miracles.

“There’s no way we can stage a threesome on this thing,” Jack determines, kicking one of the bedposts.  “It’s just not happening.”

“I’ll try to contain my disappointment,” Timmy says from the kitchen which is maybe like fifteen feet away.  This whole apartment is insulting.  The hallway walls skim Jack’s shirtsleeves when he walks down it – that’s how fucking cramped it is – and the closet door in said hallway can’t even open all the way before hitting the ceiling light.  The front room is a barebones hybrid of living room, dining room, and kitchen and it’s all awful.

Rhys comes out of the closet that he calls the bathroom with puffs of steam chasing after him.

“God, hot water,” Rhys groans orgasmically and brushes past Jack so he can collapse face-first onto his too-small bed in his too-small apartment. Jack scowls at Rhys but then just stares at his ass clad in his thin cotton pajama bottoms.  That’s alright, at least.  Not _great_ but, hey, it’ll do for now.

“You out, Rhys?” Timmy calls and his voice rattles around this shoebox like a rock in a tin can.

“Your turn,” Rhys yells back.  They’re so damn chummy with each other.  Timothy shuffles into the bathroom and closes the door and the water starts up all over again.  Jack rolls his eyes and leans against the doorway of Rhys’ stupid, claustrophobic bedroom.

Timmy was the one who halted Jack back at the bunker by picking up his foot and pushing Jack off of Rhys, going, “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute.”  He asked Rhys for the details of his contract and, to Jack’s bewildered surprise, Rhys recited the terms word for word.  After which, Timmy looked up at Jack with his Grumpy Face and shook his head.

“Rhys, tell Jack you want to go home, right now,” Timmy had said.  And Rhys, who was still all flush-faced and looking every bit like the virgin he was, all primed and ready to pop his cherry, looked curiously at Jack and said,

“I want to go home now.”

So here they are.  ‘Home’ is almost as bad as that pit is. 

Jack folds his arms over his chest and stares pensively at Rhys’ ass, thinking about how the cult will realize before long what happened.  How they probably know where Rhys lives because they research stuff like that before they kidnap these morsels.  How they’ll come busting down the door with new spells to use and Jack would be happy to welcome the opportunity to destroy this stupid shoebox but more than anything, he wants his vengeance to be exacted on _his own_ terms.  Not with that dogpile of dickholes having any say.

“Hey,” Jack snaps at Rhys, who jolts up and turns over, staring at Jack like he just remembered he had his back facing him.  But he’s also blushing so maybe he’s less worried about his spine and more worried about his twinky little ass.  Rightfully so.  “You need to lay out some more demands.  Like now.”

“So you can have more excuses to fuck me?” Rhys asks.  Jack groans and rolls his eyes.

“Look, you can’t blame a guy for being horny when you set a nice new slab of submissive boymeat in front of him. Whatever.  It’s not pound-for-pound, we’ve gone through that.  You’ll do whatever I want whenever I want it and I’ll make all your dreams come true at the drop of a hat.  But what _you_ need to do is say you don’t any of us to be found by that cult ever again so I can put that into effect like right the fuck now.”

The kid blinks while the information catches up with him and then he just gives a nod.

“I don’t want me or you or Timothy to be found by that cult ever again,” Rhys repeats.  Jack runs his teeth across his fangs and the surge of might and hellfire that roars in him is so goddamn arousing….  Rhys’s lips part and his pupils get all big when he exhales.  “That counted as obeying,” Rhys says softly. 

“Looks like,” Jack says back, not as softly.  Like before, his contract circle glows a soft blue and Jack lifts his hand and puts it against the wall.  His own spell circle materializes across the drywall and then fades like it was never there.  That’ll work for now.  Long enough for Jack to regroup and then kill them all the next chance he gets.

“Listen, Jack,” Rhys mumbles.

“What?”

Rhys startles and then scowls and it’s just fucking ridiculous that it doesn’t occur to Jack not to laugh at him.  He sniggers.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Rhys says pointedly.

Jack gestures around the room, which is devoid of furniture save for Rhys’ bed.

“Here, asshole,” Rhys says, smacking his hand on the empty mattress in front of him.

“Yeowch, put the claws away, kitty,” Jack says.  He plants a hand on the end of the mattress and jumps up onto it.  Rhys bounces a little which makes his whole grumpy schtick even less worthy of being taken seriously.  Jack spreads his legs out so his feet are framing either side of Rhys’ hips, taking up most of the remaining space.  He raises an eyebrow to challenge Rhys to say anything about it.  Rhys just rolls his eyes and goes back to blushing with his knees up against his chest.

The one light in this room is a little LED desk lamp that’s on the floor next to a laptop that’s open but dark and has a power cord leading from it that’s not connected to any outlet.  The carpet is off-white and shabby and has more than a couple bizarre stains on it here and there.  Smells pretty decent, though, the room does.  Not like rotting garbage and stale air.  Just like….  Dryer sheets.  Deodorant that could be found at any grocery store.  Hair products that probably cost more than what any normal person would pay but Jack can smell them on Rhys, even now, and on the pillow where they’ve lingered for months before.

Outside it’s midday; not that they can see it from here.  Rhys has an entire blanket tacked up over the windows, blinds and all for some inexplicable reason.  Jack pulls back a corner of it to peek.

“Timothy said you wouldn’t want to stay with us,” Rhys starts off.

“Trying to get rid of me already?” Jack asks, glancing back at Rhys to see if he’ll feel guilty. 

“I’m just _talking_ ,” Rhys protests.  “Look, I don’t _know_ you.  I’ve read some things about you in Timothy’s notebooks – his own thoughts about you – but I ran into a contract with you to save us and then you went from thinking I was scum to wanting to have sex with me and now we’re out and you won’t even let yourself relax or get comfortable without me having to cuss at you to do it.”

“Listen, Rhysie,” Jack says, tilting his head back a little to contemplate the water damage on the popcorn ceiling, “I can dig our little arrangement, a’right?  It’s got some cool perks that I never played with since I got this meatsuit the same day I got locked in that shithole.  So you _are_ special, okay?  That make you feel better?”

“I don’t care about what you think of me,” Rhys insists.

“Bullshit,” Jack interrupts, noting the redness of Rhys’ ears.  Rhys goes on like he didn’t hear him.

“I’d just like to know what you want to do.  What’s your plan?  Are you gonna go off on your own?  Are you going to stick around at all?  You gonna help me get a better place to live first or am I gonna stay here and share the bed with Timothy for a few months before I can start getting my wishes granted?”

Jack smirks and gives a single, short laugh.  Credit to where it’s due, the kid doesn’t sound like he’s trying to hold out for a miracle.  What sort, Jack doesn’t know.  That they all become a weird, happy family, maybe?  Contracted until death do they part? That Jack will feel like embracing his manifestation in this human body and do things like settle down?

No, it looks like Rhys just wants to know what Jack’s plans are so he can get the fuck on with his life, with or without him.  Jack can respect that.

“A’right, cupcake, lemme lay it out for you,” Jack says.  He licks his lips and sits up properly again, cracking the bones in his neck.  Rhys watches him.  His eyes are pretty intent for how precious they are.  It’s the eyebrows.  Jack would know.  “First things, I’m gonna hunt down every member of that cult and kill ‘em.  I _do_ wanna actually get laid sooner rather than later but it doesn’t fucking have to be you; you were there and it does nice things to my dick when you play our little game.”  Amazing how that intense expression is just fucking ruined by how pink those cheeks get.  “I’ve got a lot of experimenting to do now that I’ve got the means to do it, so I’m gonna fucking do it.  Gotta see if I can still do my good works now that I’m fleshlocked. 

“I still need to sleep.  And I don’t sleep anywhere I don’t have the home advantage so I _guess_ that means that where you are will have to do for now.  That help fill in the blanks in your stupid little head?”

Rhys sneers at Jack and then drops the look entirely to pull in and push out a sigh.

“Yeah, I get it,” he says.

Jack tilts his head one way and studies Rhys a while.  It’s like the boy can’t go a minute of his life now without looking like everyone has x-ray vision and can see through his clothes, the way he blushes.  Rhys looks at the blanketed window and his pursed lips scrunch this way and that and he fidgets.  He’s like that for a moment then he glances back at Jack.  Specifically, Jack’s eyes, then his mouth, then his eyes again, then away, all in just one second.

Jack gets it, too.

“You know what your problem is, pumpkin,” Jack says, loudly enough to break the silence but not so loud that Rhys jumps out of his skin again like he did before.  He does give Jack that kind of cute, ‘the fuck?’ glare before Jack just presses on without prompting.  “Your problem is that you’re boring.  You look just like every other twiggy nerd boy I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot of you.  I think you’ll be a lot more fun to fuck when you’re a damn bit prettier than you are now.”

“Wow,” Rhys says, scowling furious and all red to prove it.

“I want you to get a tattoo,” Jack tells him.  Oh, and isn’t that just baffling.  Rhys’ mouth opens, his eyes squinting.  “Right here,” Jack clarifies. He pulls the pillow out of Rhys’ arms and then strokes a hand over his chest.  Rhys’ eyes get wide now, a silent gasp sucked in while Jack’s fingers slide from his sternum, across his nipple, and over to his shoulder.  “And here,” Jack continues, his fingers trailing up the curve of Rhys’ neck until the come to rest there at his nape.  Rhys’ pupils are all dilated and Jack smiles into their enraptured depths.  “Betcha it’ll look _real_ sexy.”

“Is that an order?” Rhys asks.  To his credit, his voice only shakes a little.  Least he’s not stuttering.  Or looking away.

“You know it is,” Jack says with a grin.  “Let’s turn you into a work of art.  All of you, little by little.”

“I don’t have to do it right now, do I?” Rhys asks cautiously.

“No,” Jack says.  “But you have to agree that you will.”

Rhys nods. 

“Yeah,” he says and actually sounds like he wants it.  “I’ll do it.”

It’s funny how this strange and bewitching satisfaction can make Jack’s priorities just transmute into something entirely new.  Or maybe it’s just strange how Rhys went from being prey to inconvenience to plaything and now he’s rapidly approaching something else altogether.  Who knows what.  Jack leans in and licks his lips and Rhys’ breath tastes a little minty between them.  It’s an odd and delightful contrast to how Jack feels like he could breathe fire if he wanted.

“You looked like you were pretty willing to let me have you, back at the pit,” Jack says.  He makes a point of having his lips skim gently against Rhys’, pushing the gasp into that open mouth before Jack makes a sudden but shallow retreat. 

Rhys closes his mouth and his swallow is loud.  Jack finds his eyes and pins him to the wall.

“You were grinding your dick into my ass,” Rhys says and Jack shows his teeth in a grin. “And you’re like every stupid fantasy I ever gotten off to.”  Jack can imagine the traits in a list: great body, gorgeous face, domineering, powerful….

“Callin’ me the guy of your dreams, Rhysie?” Jack says, coming in closer, pushing Rhys’ legs apart so he can occupy the space between them.

“Pfff…not really.” So he says but he keeps tilting his head and opening his mouth and watching Jack’s lips, his eyes, his lips again.  His hands are shaking in the fists at his sides. 

“You have great taste,” Jack tells him. “Do your stupid fantasies involve you getting hunted and eaten?” He catches Rhys’ tongue when he licks out and Rhys’ whole body jolts in surprise, a moan floating out of his mouth. “Fetish like that will get you dead pretty quick.”

“’s fine, I’ve got someone who takes care of that for me, now,” Rhys says.  And Jack sniggers before Rhys finally loses his patience and grabs Jack to kiss him.  Jack surges up against Rhys and uses his hand to cushion Rhys’ head so it doesn’t bash against the wall and cause contract problems.  His other hand goes straight to Rhys’ dick to squeeze him through those ridiculously thin pajama pants.

“Fuck, you’re so hard already,” Jack growls against Rhys’ lips.  He wants to _bite_ so bad, like hunger in his teeth but Jack only nips gently, gently…gently enough to get Rhys to whimper and almost strangle Jack trying to get him closer.  “Jeez, babe, all you had to do was ask.” 

“Wasn’t sure,” Rhys pants, his minty breath sweet on Jack’s tongue.  “But, seriously, _fuck it_.”

“That was the plan.  Here, c’mere….”

Jack pulls on Rhys and shifts them around so he can get his back braced against the wall and Rhys in his lap, facing the door. 

“Why?” Rhys asks, shivering when Jack puts his lips to Rhys’ neck after peeling up his steam-and-sweat-damp shirt to scrunch it under his armpits.

“I hate this bed,” is the only answer Jack has for him.  He pulls Rhys’ hips tight against his own and trusts him to be a good boy and stay there and squirm while he reaches for Rhys’ nipples and starts plucking at them. 

Which is the sight that greets Timmy when he comes out of the dinky little bathroom, showered and redressed in his dirty clothes.  The way his face goes red as a goddamn berry.  Rhys makes this surprised sound – “Oh!” – when he comes back to his head enough to see who’s staring at him and doesn’t _that_ just make him all the more eager?  His shoulders pull back and his face turns to hide against Jack’s cheek.  The kid smells like mint and pretentious hair gel and Jack imagines swallowing him.

“Well?” Jack growls and doesn’t bother to keep his tongue from striping the side of Rhys’ warm neck in saliva. 

“Rhys, you want this?” Timmy asks.

Jack rolls his eyes.

“Are you _seeing_ him right now?”

“Yes, yes, I want it,” Rhys says and his arms lift which is Timmy’s invitation to get a move on.  He takes his dirty shirt off and drops it on the floor before crawling onto the bed.  “You can touch me, it’s okay,” Rhys tells Tim while Jack slips his hands down the front of Rhys’ pants and gropes him.  “Shit, Jack—”

“How ‘bout you tell him what you _really_ want him to do,” Jack suggests, his teeth nipping harmlessly against the tender bit of Rhys’ ear.  Then he goes back for it with his tongue just to hear a repeat—the sustained note—of that attractive gasp. 

“Oh, god, please put your mouth on me,” Rhys sputters in a rush of syllables like if he gets them out faster, he doesn’t have to deal with the embarrassment.  Another sweet, sharp breath is the sound of the vindictive scorch in Jack’s bones, making his mouth water and his cock press hard against Rhys’ ass.  Timothy finds his face in Rhys’ hands and leans into each pale and shaking finger with bliss smeared across his face, wet and pink on his bottom lip. 

The request is vague enough that first, Timothy just leans in and kisses Rhys.  Which is fine.  They make out and Jack watches Timothy’s eyelashes flutter against his freckles while Jack kneads his hands back and forth between Rhys’ thighs, framing his cock but not quite touching it.  Boy’s already getting steamy under his shorts.  The kisses slide down Rhys’ neck, which arches back and gives Jack enough leverage to lick away the taste still lingering on Rhys’ lips.  The moment Timothy gets his mouth around a nipple, Jack swallows down the sound that Rhys sighs into his mouth.

Outside there’s a sudden soft noise of thunder that growls beneath the hum of the AC unit bolted to the window.  Timothy turns his face towards the fluttering blanket that’s pinned over the blinds and Rhys wraps his arms gently around Timmy’s head while he mutters about this being the first time he’s had rain in years.  Jack rolls his eyes and rips the blanket off the window, shoving back the blinds to show the blue-gray of the afternoon, its storm rolling in with a still farofff fog of downpour. 

Rhys is busy catching his breath with Timmy making moony eyes out into the hazy cityscape.  Jack props his chin on Rhys’ shoulder and frowns at the world outside.  It’ll be there when he feels like invading it again.  Right now, Rhys’ body is hot beneath his hands and against his chest and Jack tilts his head a little to whisper into Rhys’ ear.

“Get the rest of Timmy’s clothes off,” he says.  Rhys makes a soft sound and lets go so he can obey.

It’s an easy thing to get Timmy nude because the boy already likes being that way – a secret known to no one but Jack because of a lot of obvious and unimportant reasons – and right as the fearsome wave breaks over both Rhys and Jack, pretty Timmy is all laid back on the bed, naked.  His legs have spread to either side of Rhys and Jack’s because of the continued problem of the bed being too small and he’s pink from the tips of his ears to his perked-up nipples.  His cock rests, completely hard, against his hip.  Rhys makes this wet sound that gives Jack the impression that he had to suck drool back into his mouth.

“No kidding,” he mutters against Rhys’ ear and Rhys goes, “Eheh-heh-heh,” like some airheaded horndog.

“Isn’t he just the handsomest?” Jack says as he leans forward, making Rhys lean forward.  Timothy is scowling but his eyes are all shiny and his freckles are washed out from his blushing and the cool spill of midday rain through the window. 

“Narcissist,” Timmy grumbles at him at the same time Rhys says, “God, yeah,” like he’s been waiting all this time to say it.  Rhys laughs again, like a hiccup, his dick jumping a bit against Jack’s hand. 

“You’re both crazy gorgeous,” Rhys admits.

“I’m the one that’s gorgeous, Timmy’s just lucky he gets the looks.”

Rhys reaches out and puts his fingertips timidly against the scarred tracery of Timmy’s Twin Shadow seal.

“Ouch,” he mumbles, counter to how he looks at Timmy like he’s the sweetest, most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.  Jack only knows this because of the way Rhys’ fingers are kitten-soft on the blisters of Timothy’s skin and how he’s _sighing_ beneath his shivers, all enamored.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Timmy assures him.  His hands stroke up the entire length of Rhys’ arm so he can grip his shoulder and pull him down for more kisses.

Jack lets Rhys go, his hands occupying themselves with hooking into the flimsy waistband of Rhys’ pants so he can pull them down.  They don’t come off – Rhys is kneeling, they bunch up at the bottom of his thighs – but Jack just leaves them where they are and uses both hands to grip at Rhys’ ass, hungrily.  Rhys moans into Timmy’s mouth and he shifts and kicks and Jack pulls the pajama pants all the way down when Rhys just lays his entire body down over Timmy’s to stretch his legs out.  Jack looks up; Rhys is looking back at him, Timothy mouthing (mauling) his neck.  Jack smirks at him.

It’s like Rhys is just waiting to be told what to do.  Jack can’t see Rhys’ mouth since Rhys’ shoulder is blocking the view but he imagines it open, wet-lipped, as he listens to the little gasps and moans that Rhys gives while Timmy kisses him.

“Tell him to take your shorts off.  Where’s your lube?”

“Under the pillow,” Rhys sighs.  Timothy is already hooking his thumbs into Rhys’ underwear and tugging them down but Rhys still says, “Take ‘em off, take ‘em off,” and then, “O-Oh!”

Jack glances up from the pithy, mostly-used-up bottle of lube in his hands.  Rhys has his underwear pulled halfway down his ass and is whimpering as he shudders on top of Timothy, his hips thrusting in a mindless rut.  Rhys’ breaths are sharp, cut short, and his moans become muffled behind the hand he slaps over his mouth, leaving space for Jack to catch Timmy’s surprised little gasp.

“Holy shit, did you just cream your shorts?” Jack asks, delight spreading across his face.

“Sh-sh-shut up,” Rhys says, the stutter of it more of a release than a reaction of embarrassment.  Though his face is still red as all hell.  Timmy has left off trying to peel Rhys’ undies off of him and is just hugging the boy tight to his chest.  Jack finishes up the job for him and sure enough, there’s a big, nasty wet spot on the front, smeared into the elastic.   “Felt so good.”

The aftereffect of Rhys’ obedience is still tingling through Jack’s nerves as he wads up Rhys’ boxer-briefs and hurls them across the room.  Timothy gets himself upright and Rhys just sits there, catching his breath in his lap while Timmy pulls Rhys’ shirt off of him.  They’re both naked and plucked-pink and Rhys has his legs wrapped around Timothy’s hips.  All they do hold each other and breathe.  And kiss.  It’s like watching softcore porn and Jack throws the bottle of lube at Timmy’s head to get him to pay attention.

“Ow,” Tim says more out of startlement than pain (there’s no way that actually hurt him, no fuckin’ way), “what the fuck, Jack?”

“Loosen up,” Jack tells him.  “You or him, I don’t care.”

Rhys looks like a clinging koala cub hanging onto Timothy the way he is.  He presses his lips to Timmy’s ear and murmurs something that has Timmy’s antagonized scowl melting away into another flush.  Jack doesn’t quite know what to call the look in Timmy’s eyes as he shifts his focus from Jack to Rhys but it’s _weird_ and Jack’s certainly never seen it aimed at him before.   
  
“Rhys says he wants me to penetrate him before you do,” Timothy relays to Jack, his fingers sliding up into Rhys’ hair.  He’s holding him as if Jack is thinking about snatching him away.  Which he’s not.

“Fine with me, I’ll have his mouth,” Jack says.  He’s willing to compromise.  “You can do that much, can’t you, Rhysie?”

“Never done it before,” Rhys says, turning a little in Tim’s lap without actually letting go of him.  He looks at Jack and Jack smirks back at him.  “But I….”

“Yeah?  You what?  Say it,” Jack says, unzipping his jeans and reaching in to pull out his cock like he’s been wanting to for a while now.

“I wanna suck you off,” Rhys blurts out and then whimpers a little when the scorch sears through him again.  Jack bites his bottom lip and rides it out, stroking his cock while Timmy kisses at Rhys’ neck.

“You sure?” Timothy asks him.  Jack frowns at him.  Timmy glares right back.  Rhys doesn’t see it.  “You don’t actually _have_ to do that just because he made you say it.”

“No, I really want to,” Rhys assures Timmy, going as far as to hold his face and kiss the bridge of his nose like it’ll prove that he really does want nothing more in the world than to slobber on Jack’s cock.  He’s an amateur, there’s no way it’s actually gonna be worth remembering.  But it’ll be his first, so that’s a fun little hallmark.  Jack doesn’t actually give a shit about virgins or the defiling thereof, but Rhys seems to be that type of virgin who’s had too many fantasies to explore. 

“He _really wants to_ , Timmy,” Jack says, sitting back on his heels with his dick in his hand.  “Just let the kid do what he wants.”

“I swear to god if you fuck his mouth like you fuck mine,” Timmy says as he relaxes his still-clinging arms so Rhys can turn around.  That threat is never finished, though.  Timmy picks up a new one instead.  “You know what I’ll do if you hurt him.”

“I’m not gonna fuck his mouth,” Jack says, rolling his eyes.  Rhys is on his knees in front of him, raising an eyebrow, not believing him for a second.  “I’m not gonna fuck your mouth,” Jack repeats to him.  “I’m gonna let you use that soft little tongue and those sweet lips however you like. Just gonna lie back and enjoy it.” He touches his thumb to Rhys’ bottom lip and pulls it down gently, just a little, enjoying the way it makes Rhys’ eyes go all hazy and dilated.  Better look on him than that pout, that’s for sure.  “See?  That sounds real nice, doesn’t it?”

There’s some shuffling while everyone gets comfortable which has Jack with his back against the wall, Rhys on his knees with forearms braced on Jack’s thighs and his ass in the air, and Timmy sitting cross-legged behind Rhys, looking for wherever the lube bottle fell.  Rhys puts a hand on Jack’s stomach and strokes it gently upwards.  Then down again, palm pressed to feel the definition of his muscles.  It slides all the way down until Rhys can wrap his digits around Jack’s dick.

His hands are soft.  The kind of soft that comes from never doing anything more strenuous than tapping a keyboard day after day.  The spots of red on his cheeks are vibrant as he leans in, his breath warm-then-cool against Jack’s erection as he hovers over it, staring.  Must be goddamn fascinating to go from never having a dick in your face in your whole life to having one in your hand about to put it in your mouth.  Jack wouldn’t know. From this angle, it’s difficult to say, but evidence points to Rhys having a truly _mesmerizing_ experience.  Timmy looks like he’s one lean backwards from tumbling onto the carpet.

“This bed is too small,” he says.  “This isn’t going to work well.”

“First thing, bigger bed,” Rhys mutters, still looking at Jack’s dick like it’s a challenge that he can’t wait to tackle.  His babysoft hands rub and stroke and squeeze and Jack just lets his head roll back and enjoys it.

“Bigger apartment first,” Timothy advises.  “Then bigger bed.”

“Kid’s got his own priorities,” Jack says and strokes Rhys’ hair, twirling the damp curls around his fingers and watching in silence when those slack lips part and suck in a breath like Rhys is about to go deep diving.  His tongue is still soft and warm so it doesn’t matter so much that he’s as much an idiot virgin because it’s just _nice_.  “Mnnh, that’s good….”

“Jack.”

“Whaaaat?” Jack groans at Timothy, eyebrows pointed so far down on his forehead he can feel them bruising the bridge of his nose.  Timothy glowers at him before he answers.

“We should wait until we have a bigger bed,” he says, sounding so level-headed despite how he’s pink as a cherry-chip cake.

“Fine, whatever, long as I get to come. You assholes owe me a proper threesome, ooh! Wow, watch the teeth, cupcake.”

Rhys lifts his head up and licks the string of spit off his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” he pants and Jack snags him (gently, somehow) by the neck and tugs him up so he can lick into that little whore mouth.  It’s just because those eyes are so sex-drunk and his cheeks are so warm and forget the fact that his perfect, pretty teeth might’ve caught the head of Jack’s dick for a split second: it’s refreshing to fuck someone who’s eager and pliant.  As opposed to Timmy who is either spitting-angry or apathetically limp depending on whatever mood tilt he’s at.  Though, right now, Timothy is watching Jack lick into Rhys’ mouth and tracing the long curve of that pretty spine with his eyes, bottle of lube turning in his hand idly.  Timmy’s dick is _up_ for Rhys.

“You sure you don’t wanna get in on this?” Jack goads Tim, reaching behind Rhys to get a good handful of his ass and grip-and-tug it.  Rhys bites his lip and digs his nails into Jack’s biceps and Timmy tries not to make it obvious that he’s looking at Rhys’ hole, now revealed, but Jack catches him in the act and smirks at that guilty pout.  “Don’t think Rhys would mind the bed’s a little cramped.  Would you, Rhys?”

“Yeah, it’s, ah—! It’s cool with me,” Rhys says, breathless against Jack’s neck like he’s not thinking clearly.  Ideal state for a fuckbuddy to be in, Jack thinks. 

“You’ll thank me for it later,” Timothy tells Rhys.  And he abandons the lube bottle to punctuate his point; his hands instead steady themselves at the back of Rhys’ hips and Timmy backs off the bed entirely.  “I’m gonna go get a chair.”  And he goes.

Rhys is kneeling up properly, some of the haze gone out of his eyes as he watches Tim walk naked down the hallway, still hard as fuck, to go grab a chair from the card table that serves as the eating space in the kitchen-living-dining room.  The way he’s just stuck there, Rhys is, staring down the dark hall with his bare chest lifting just a bit with every breath drawn….  All of his attention is just anticipating Timmy’s return.  Jack clicks his tongue in annoyance and Rhys flinches a little, turning back to look at him.  At least he has the decency to look embarrassed at forgetting about whose lap he’s currently astride.

“You want him to fuck you?” Jack asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” Rhys says.  He’s cogent enough now to wipe the drool off his lips with the back of his hand. “But, uh….  Not when he’s not comfortable.”

“Timmy’s never comfortable,” Jack informs Rhys, shaking his hand at the tragedy of it all.  “Though, yeah, this bed is goddamn awful.  Surprised my leg hasn’t cramped up yet.  You gonna get back to suckin’ me off anytime soon, princess?”

Rhys picks up the bottle of lube that Timmy left behind and flicks it open.  Then he bends himself over the side of the bed and goes rooting around under the mattress until he resurfaces with a reasonably sized dildo.  Jack blinks at him.  Rhys lubes up his toy and glances at Jack out of the corner of his eyes, blushing to his ears. 

“Give a guy some warning before you go whipping out those things,” Jack says, grinning wildly.

“Shut up, it’s useful,” Rhys mumbles.

“I’ll bet.  Can’t get Timmy to pop your cherry so you’re goin’ for the old standby?”

“I know what I like.”  He’s trying so hard to keep that cool levelheadedness that Timothy displays but Rhys gives himself away with how his hands are shaking and he’s so acutely _aware_ of Jack watching him, anticipating, settling in for a show and tugging on his cock to pass the time until Rhys gets back to business.

That’s about the moment that Timmy returns, setting the chair he brought by the bed, out of reach but within view of everything, the bare window a silver-blue backdrop to the stage of this tryst.  Or porn.  It’s a porn.  The actors keep changing their minds about whether or not they want to be involved but Jack’s gonna go after his orgasm until he gets it.  Preferably, he gets it right down Rhys’ throat.  Or maybe on his face, that’d be nice too.

“It cool that I’m here?” Timmy asks Rhys and Rhys blushes at him with a smile and Timmy blush-smiles back and it’s just _stupid._  

“Never took you for a voyeur, Tim Tams,” Jack interrupts before he starts vomiting from how they so obviously want to ride off into the sunset together.  “I’d’ve put on some nice shows for you if you asked me nice.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Timmy says as he pulls the loose sheet off of Rhys’ bed and wraps it around himself, shuffling to get it tucked under his bare butt before he sits down again.  “You’ll tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable at all, yeah?”

“You’re not,” Rhys says.  “I don’t mind.”

 

Timothy

It’s still raining.  The thunder is like a bass track and what stretches of lightning Tim can see out behind them cast Rhys and Jack in strobelights and they’re like art.  Like a middle finger pressed up against the hazy smears of an impressionist painting.  There’s no stand-at-distance and lose-your-focus for this work; Timothy can’t take his eyes off the details.  Sweat rolls down the shallow groove of Rhys’ spine and gets lost amidst the lube-sweat-residue that’s slicked around the dildo Rhys is fucking himself with.  Jack’s fingers tense and struggle, unkempt nails digging into his palms because violence is thrumming through him (pull his hair, scratch his cheeks, choke him, gag him, he’ll be so much lovelier if he cries).  Counterpoint struggles.  It’s like a performance.  It’s a contest.  It’s a race and a wrestling match and a museum installation, one of those things when the artist shows up themselves and does something outrageous that makes people bicker at each other whether it’s genius or even art at all. 

Is this art?  Timothy furrows his brow and watches a thick, churned-up glob of saliva slide down Jack’s shiny-wet cock as Rhys catches his breath and Jack uses the interim to bury his hands in his own hair and growl at the ceiling.  Timothy’s own dick is hard as an iron spike and hot in his sweaty hand and he’s thinking about later he might journal about this and call it magnificent.  Maybe not art.  Though the way Jack has gone past giving out commands for Rhys to follow so that he might reap the benefits of Rhys’ obedience (Rhys’ benefits are merely a bonus, not a cooperative goal) into nonverbal, barely-restrained writhing feels like something Tim has read about in poems.

He could justify his case if he wanted.  Here is the composition, replete with oh-so-familiar themes, these juxtapositions of chastity and lust (Rhys is a virgin but he’s fervently fucking himself onto that dildo like it’s not what he needs but it’s the only thing he has, dipping over Jack’s cock like it’ll slake every thirst he’s known). Of power and restraint (what must it be like for Jack to know that at any moment, any slip into his comfortable brutality will put him at Timothy’s wrath?).  And here Timothy is, hovering that boundary between sentinel and voyeur, watching with eyes that dissect and romanticize.

Jack gives up on trying and shreds the mattress when he comes into Rhys’ mouth without warning, growling, “Take it, take it, swallow it, drink it all down.”  Rhys obeys and Rhys moans and Rhys comes as he sits up and strokes his dick, red-faced and teary-eyed and loud.  It’s a fantastic, crude symphony.  Timothy finally remembers to exhale and feels himself inhabit his body again.

Rhys comes down and sits on the mattress with the dildo wedged inside him still and cum all over his hand and chest.  Jack looks like he’s seen God and got bitchslapped by him for good measure, staring out the window with his wet dick flaccid against his saliva-soaked jeans.  How did it slip past Timothy’s notice how hard his heart is pounding?  Making a throbbing ruckus in his head, beneath his ribs, in the palm of his hand where his erection’s been neglected for an unintentional moment of philosophizing.  Who does shit like that? Who watches two men have sex and thinks about what Tim thinks about?

His dick is so hard right now it hurts to breathe.

The sheet that Tim has wrapped around him is damp with sweat and the rain hasn’t let up, its music like clicks against the gutters outside.  Timothy takes another slow breath and it shakes apart when he lets it go.  Rhys has wobbled over to one side so he can pull the dildo out of himself and he just drops it on the floor, collapsing into the small bit of space he can find on the mattress to lay down.  Jack gets up and leaves for the restroom; the shower turns on.  It’s a good excuse as any to take up the space he left behind.

Rhys is still catching his breath as Timothy pulls himself onto the bed but he looks up at Tim and smiles at him and covers his eyes with his hands when he says, “That was crazy.”

“You looked like you were really enjoying yourself,” Tim tells him, turning so he can lay on his side with his forehead near Rhys’.

“Learning new things about myself,” Rhys says.  His hands fall away and he makes upside-down eye contact with Tim.  “Did you…you know?”

“Not yet,” Timothy whispers, though he didn’t intend for it to come out that way.  Rhys pushes himself up and maneuvers around on trembling limbs until they’re side by side, both breathing deeply for entirely different reasons.  “You look like you want a nap.”

“Mmh,” Rhys chuckles, “and another shower.  Guess I have to wait for that one.”

Rhys’ hands are sticky-clammy and smell like sex and Timothy couldn’t care less about it when he reaches for Rhys’ hands to weave their fingers together and hold tight. 

Immersion, Timothy thinks.  It’s a word that is dropped into the back of his mind and acknowledged only peripherally while he tucks the bridge of his nose up against Rhys’ and feels bliss fall over them both like the rain just outside the window.  It falls and Timothy is _immersed_.  Rhys’ sigh against his lips and his unsteady grip in answer to Timothy’s covetous one are folding over Timothy like a wave.  Like a reversed time lapse of a flower in bloom, each petal curling in around Timothy’s scratched-out soul to harbor him.

“Can I…,” Rhys begins to ask and breaks up the question with a soft, incredulous laugh.  Like he can’t believe he’s embarrassed for asking after everything that’s just happened. Timothy grins.

“Would you?” he asks back.  Rhys thumps their hands (all of them, all tangled up) against Tim’s chest.

“Ass,” he says before his kisses Timothy’s lips.  They untwine and Rhys pushes at Tim’s shoulder so he’ll roll onto his back, spread out with that loose sheet like some veil thrown aside to reveal just how eager he is to consummate this occasion.  Rhys sets his hand against Timothy’s chest, lifts himself up, reaches back to hold Timothy’s cock and then guides it in, bears down.  All that in just a span of seconds, too quickly to penetrate through every addlement wracking Tim.  Too swift for him to heed Rhys against it.

Too late, now, he’s got his hands around Rhys’ hips and his head thrown back, gasping because….   _Because._  

“Oh, god,” Timothy chokes and Rhys bends his whole body forward to rest against Tim, like it’s no big deal what he just did.  The wealth and love of the contract rise up sweetly to whisk Tim into another dizzy spell of Good and Right and there’s no way that this counts as platonic.  It was platonic affection, wasn’t it?  Since when is holding someone close with your dick buried in their ass platonic?

Rhys is laughing and it’s a playful stutter against Timothy’s chest but it’s also a wicked series of squeezes around his over-sensitized cock and he moans and groans in equal measure.

“Did I say that out loud?” he asks Rhys as he shifts himself to plant his feet on the bed.

“Yeah,” Rhys sniggers.  Then he wraps his arms around Timothy’s neck and just sighs because Tim isn’t wasting any more time not fucking Rhys. 

He takes his time.  His thrusts are measured and deep and he doesn’t even move hard enough to make the bed rattle.  Tim only stands being on his back for about ten seconds before he rolls them both over and gets his knees under him to have better leverage.  He’s not going to last and he doesn’t feel like lasting so Tim holds Rhys tight and rolls his hips languidly like he could do this forever and comes before the minute’s up.  He comes with Rhys petting his hair and cooing in his ear like he doesn’t realize it.  He comes with his face in Rhys’ neck, letting his exhales shiver apart into helpless sounds of want and need. He comes inside of Rhys, as deeply seated as possible, without a condom on, and that just makes his dick seize up with one last spurt for good measure. 

Rhys lets go and lays back.  His eyes are closed and his mouth is curved up in a smile and his face is so flushed, delighted and embarrassed. 

There are no words that Timothy feels are appropriate to share in this moment.  He pulls out and lays down and brings Rhys close so he can kiss him because that seems a better, more perfect contribution.

 

Rhys’ apartment has a tiny balcony that has two little lawn chairs and a dried-out potted plant and that’s where Timothy sits with his cup noodles, watching the clouds break over the stars.  There’s a towel folded up on the plastic straps of the seat to keep the rainwater from soaking into his jeans.  The door slides open and Jack steps out with a bag of Doritos in his hands.

“Kiddo’s sleepin’,” he says as he wipes off the seat of the other chair and then falls into it.  It makes a sad, creaking snap when he lands but somehow stays together. 

“I don’t blame him,” Timothy says.  The broth in the Styrofoam cup is hot and salty.  Chicken flavored.  Something Tim hasn’t had in years.  Reminds him of college.  Tim sips at it a little before twirling up some noodles with a fork he found in the sink.  The plastic of the bag crinkles when Jack pops it open.  “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“Eh.  Give me another hour, I’ll be out there,” Jack says.  “Chips are good but a man’s gotta eat.”

“You ever wonder why they kept giving us virgins when literally anyone would do?” Timothy asks him, looking off past the mountains where the storm was still flashing, distantly. 

“Humans are fuckin’ idiots, that’s all I can say.”  Jack crunches on a handful of cool ranch flavored corn chips and Timothy slurps his noodles because it’s been a long time since anyone has given a shit about him being rude while he eats.  The air around them is cool and damp, smelling like rainwashed cement and dirt.  It’s refreshing.  In that urban sort of way.  “I’m guessin’ you’re gonna be sticking with Rhysie from now on,” Jack says with half-eaten chips packed in his cheek.

“I dunno, I might travel a little while,” Tim says with a sigh as he leans back in the chair.  It groans a rusty little sigh as his weight settles. 

“Pfft. Yeah, that sounds like a _really_ likely prospect,” Jack says.  “Nah, you’re not goin’ anywhere right now.”  It’s the way he says it that makes the difference because normally, Jack will be contrary just to start shit.  Just to get a rise out of Tim.  But his tone is resigned and soft and devoid of accusation. 

“You think so?” Timothy asks him.

“You got what you wanted and it’s in there, snoozing off the afterglow and drooling on the mattress,” Jack says as he puts his feet up on the railing.  “I’m bettin’ you right now that you won’t go off and do anything without that beanpole tagging along for the next year.”

Timothy sighs and doesn’t try to keep the smile away.  It’s too easy just to sink into, like an echo of those feelings he gets when he and Rhys are together.  It’s an annoyance for Jack to be right but it’s not so bad when the truth is comfortable.  Tim takes another bite of noodles.

“Me, I’ll probably be here and back,” Jack goes on to say.  “Gotta get this asshole a better place to live so I have a better place to sleep when I show up.  First, I’m gonna stamp out that damn cult.  You with me on that?”

“Sounds like a pain,” Timothy groans.  “I don’t have to bother with vengeance if you’re just gonna take care of it anyway.”

“Fine with me, lets me have all the fun for myself.”  Jack is smiling when Tim looks at him, staring into the middle distance with that utter wickedness in his bright, bright eyes and another mouthful of Doritos between his teeth.  Not exactly the most menacing look, Timothy thinks as he snorts.

“Hey, Jack?”

“Yeah, babe.”

“Don’t stay away for too long without letting me know,”

“What are you, my mother?” Jack says, looking incredulous.  Timothy shrugs and picks around his cup noodles for the little bits of carrot.  The thunder is far, faraway but Timothy can hear it over the rushing noise of the traffic below them if he listens.  “Afraid I’m gonna go off on kickass adventures without you?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Tim says, smirking at his noodles.

“Ehh, maybe I’ll tell starshine in there to get us some cellphones or somethin’.  Shouldn’t be too hard, he practically falls over his ass to please me.”

Tim rolls his eyes. 

“You’re pretty much the most awful guy I’ve ever known,” he tells Jack, who sneers at him and wipes Dorito residue off on the knee of Tim’s jeans in retaliation, “but you’re still my demon.”

“B’aww, that’s adorable, Timmy,” Jack says, pitching the now empty chip bag over the railing.  “It’s alright, you can feel a little greedy for me, you know I like it.”  He leans over the dirty plastic arm of his chair and his kiss tastes like artificial ranch flavor that leaves a grit on Tim’s bottom lip.  “You know you’ll never be without me for long.”  Jack gives him a wink and then stands up to stretch.  “A’right, I’m gonna go run. See you when the fuck ever, sometime tomorrow.”

“Try not to get caught,” Tim says, waving him off with his fork.  And Jack is gone.  Demonic powers unbridled means he doesn’t have to do things like walk to get to places he wants to go.  “Must be nice,” Timothy says to himself. 

He throws the remains of his cup noodle away in the trash like a person who cares about the environment.  The apartment is dark, quiet save for the sound of the box fan in the corner keeping the air circulating.  When Tim slips into Rhys’ room, he finds him where he left him, curled up on the bed with the sheet pulled over him. 

It’s not like it’s been _so_ long since Timothy had a quiet home to live in.  Transitioning from prisoner to (sort of) free man again should be simple.  Comfortable.  He looks at Rhys asleep in his own bed, covered only by a thin 50-thread-count sheet in dark blue, and thinks that for him, this must just be like a fever breaking.  A struggle that seemed long but was short enough to have a frame of reference for what ‘before’ felt like.  No need to adapt because he never adapted out of it.

Timothy has nothing but the notebooks Rhys convinced him to grab before they got out of the Hellhole.  They’re stacked against the wall and later, Tim is going to have to ask Rhys for a pen so he can put his final entry into the one that still has blank pages. 

This is it: it’s over.  He’s out.  They’re free forever and Timothy looks like the corporeal incarnation of a demon and has his soul bound to this gangly, awkward dork who drools when he sleeps.  There’s no going back from any of that.  At least in the bunker, it was all just part of imprisonment.  But the walls are gone now.  The only thing that Timothy has of his own are the freckles across his cheeks.  He could try to find his mother again, his home.  But she wouldn’t know him, wouldn’t believe him if he told her the truth.  Her son was probably pronounced dead after a year of being missing.  No need to scrape open that scar for her; she doesn’t deserve it.

Timothy crawls onto the bed and curls himself around Rhys.  He wraps his fingers gently around Rhys’ hand and the sigh Rhys lets out becomes the sound to the peace that floods him through.  It washes away the awful knot in his stomach and the ache behind his eyes.  Rhys stirs in the dark and blinks.  When he sees Tim, he smiles a little, then grimaces because he’s lying in a little puddle of spit.

“We need a bigger bed,” Rhys mumbles and Timothy laughs because they’ve been out for less than 24 hours and the top priority still seems to be the goddamn bed.

“Let’s go look for one tomorrow,” Timothy suggests. And Rhys nods before scooching in closer, falling instantly back into sleep in a way that Timothy envies. 

The one thing that keeps bringing Tim comfort is how Rhys continues to suggest they just get one bed for them to share and not just more beds, like any sensible person might suggest.  Timothy clutches that hope inside his heart and reminds himself that the best thing to come of all of this is that he’ll never be alone, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'mma be very honest and say that when I started this fic, it was the first attempt at a challenge to myself to learn to construct complete narratives that were 'longer' than a typical oneshot but not quite the undertaking of some of the novel-like fics that I've tried to generate before. i wanted to do a series of three-chapter fics as a way of teaching myself to write a complete story and eventually master that format so i could grow into larger, more extensive plots. I think that this work is very clearly the exemplified First Step of that challenge. I wouldn't necessarily say that I'm _proud_ of what I've written here but I certainly am glad that I managed to complete it, regardless of how inconsistent it is in many areas.
> 
> I've got quite a long way to go and a lot of things to learn still about how to make 'longer' plots work for me without veering off in wildly different directions than i originally intended. This fic veered quite a bit and I'll probably be posting my 'deleted scenes' or rather, failed attempts, just to show how there were so many paths this story might've taken and was even going to take at some point. I've gotten so much better but i've got _so much_ to learn, still! 
> 
> Despite that, I really appreciate everyone's compliments and enthusiasm for this story. It was very encouraging to see such positive reactions even when I was looking at my narrative and shaking my head. Thank you so much for your comments, your kudos, your reblogs, your bookmarks. Every one of them helped me keep going even when I felt like I'd done a crap job. I do have a good dozen little half-formed ideas about continuations of this plot but I haven't mulled them over enough to give them real form. If you liked this AU and you'd like to see more, I'd appreciate you expressing that to me either with a comment or an ask to my [tumblr.](http://rednaelo.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks so much, again, guys. See you with whatever's next. 
> 
> -Bec
> 
> P.S. if you're interested, I have posted the [deleted scenes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11050728) to this fic. Same warnings apply. :3


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